Good Day for a Hanging
by MaverickLover2
Summary: Someone shot Danny Fletcher in the back, and people in the town of Hobbs, New Mexico believed the killer was in jail. Bart Maverick didn't agree with them, since the man sitting in the jail cell was his brother, Bret. And the time to prove Bret innocent was growing short, just like the rope everybody was itching to use on the murderer.
1. Prologue

Good Day for a Hanging

Prologue

It was dark by the time he rode into town, and no one noticed another stranger. It was a small town, just one main street, with a jail and a saloon, a bank and a general store, a gun shop, a nondescript café, a tobacco store, and a barber. And a livery at the end of the street, right next to the ramshackle hotel. He went to the livery first, to obtain lodging for the worn-out gelding, then next door to the hotel, to do the same for himself. They only had one room left; the little town was filled up with people come to see the trial and, they assumed, the hanging. He didn't need much, and the room was fine. He trudged up the stairs and opened the door, and the inside of the room was as dark as his heart. After all, it was his brother they were trying to hang.

He was thinking about a lot of things when the telegram appeared out of nowhere, but the biggest thing on his mind was a girl – a woman, actually – a woman that he'd fallen hopelessly in love with. A woman that he'd contemplated changing his entire life for. A woman . . . he'd considered marrying voluntarily. He'd been married once when he was very young, but that was a union arranged to repay a debt, and ended when she was killed. This woman – this woman was everything he'd ever wanted, and never expected to find. Smart, beautiful, passionate, and as free a spirit as he was. Someone who would complement him in every way and never tie him down. And he'd left her in an instant, as soon as the telegram came.

There were no second thoughts, no recriminations. This was his brother, his best friend, the man that had practically raised him. Bret Maverick was his brother's name, and he was a gambler of some repute. The man that had just ridden into town was his younger brother Bart, another gambler, both of them that rare breed of card player – honest men, who played the game as a science and religion rather than just the means to an end. Neither was a gun hand, carrying weapons only for protection, and neither possessed much of a temper – although the younger brother was quicker with his fists than the older.

That's why the telegram was so unexpected. The man standing in the door to the room was exhausted, confused, and starved. And none of that mattered. He lit the kerosene lamp on the dresser and dumped his saddlebags and gun belt on the bed. Best not be wearing that where he was going. Then he closed the door to the room and headed back down the stairs, outside and across the street, up three doors to the jail. There was a light on inside and he didn't hesitate at the door, just walked in wearily and addressed the man sitting at the lone desk. "You the sheriff?"

The man nodded but didn't stand up. "That's right. Hopper. Frank Hopper. Who are you?"

"Bart Maverick."


	2. Fletcher, Freeman, and Smith

Chapter 1 – Fletcher, Freeman, and Smith

The sheriff never batted an eye. "His brother?" he questioned, inclining his head towards the only jail cell with a closed door.

"One and the same." The voice was as weary as the body, and it caused the sheriff to smile. The telegram had only been sent to Texas three days ago, and already the man in front of him had made an almost impossible journey. It wouldn't do him any good, but John Law smiled for the effort. He jerked his thumb towards the cell.

"Go ahead."

The worn-out gambler crossed the jail floor and leaned heavily against the bars of the cell. The man inside the cell hadn't moved until now, but he suddenly came alive and met his brother at the bars that separated them. "You made good time."

"The old man'll never forgive me."

The prisoner almost laughed. The old man that his brother referred to wasn't a relative – rather, it was his horse, the worn-out gelding currently enjoying the luxury of a stall for the night. Bret knew that his brother must have pushed the animal well beyond his normal endurance to get here from Little Bend in only three days. "Still . . . "

Bart nodded. "It was necessary."

"I appreciate it."

"Wanna tell me what happened?"

"Somebody killed Danny Fletcher, and I got blamed for it."

"Why?"

"They killed him with my gun."

"Ooh. That could pose a problem."

The black-eyed man inside the cell did not look amused. "You think?"

"Who was Danny Fletcher?"

A long sigh preceded the answer. "The minister's son."

"This town has a minister? Where's the church?"

"North of town, about a mile. The son was a card-cheat."

A shake of the head. "How many times you gonna get mixed up with those?"

"Too many, it looks like." Several months ago the older brother had gotten involved with another card-cheat, a man that was trying to take over the gambling business in Memphis. It almost cost him his life when the card-sharp shot him.

The younger brother turned back to the sheriff. "Mind if I pull a chair over?"

The answer came back quickly. "Go ahead."

Chair in place, the gambler sat down. Inside the cell, the accused man did the same, perching on the edge of his cot.

"What else was he, besides the town's favorite crooked son?"

"A son-of-a-bitch."

Bart shook his head. "You might wanna temper that kind of talk."

"No, really, he was the son of a bitch. The old man sired him before he became a man of the cloth. Danny's mother was the town whore."

"Hmpf. Anything else?"

"Didn't know him long enough to find out."

"Well, you've been a great help. You got a lawyer?"

"Yeah. Porter Freeman. Got an office in the house next to the bank. Smart young pup. Believes I didn't do it – thinks I'll hang anyway. You'll love him."

"You got any more good news for me?"

That finally brought a smile to the incarcerated man's face. "Not tonight. Go get some sleep. You look like you could use it."

The worn-out gambler nodded. "Not much fun in there, is it?"

"Nope. Now I know how you felt."

Bart had spent months languishing in a jail cell in Montana for a murder he didn't commit. "Hope your trial turns out better than mine did." Unjustly convicted and almost hung, it had been up to Bret to set him free, albeit at the last minute.

"It will. I have faith in you."

"Yeah, well . . . "

"Go on, go to bed. I ain't goin' anywhere. Least not tonight."

The younger brother stood up and pushed the chair away. For the first time he took a long, hard look at the sheriff. Thirty-five, maybe forty years old, with a mustache and dirty blonde hair, he wore a two-gun rig that looked like it had seen better days. He sat relaxed in his chair, almost dozing, paying little or no attention to the conversation passing between the two brothers. Until the man on the outside of the cell stood up. Instantly the sheriff was wide-awake and on his feet, and it was only then that Bart realized how tall Frank Hopper was.

"Easy, Hopper," was the only remark made. "I ain't heeled."

"Get on, then." The sheriff answered. "Don't come back before eight."

"Sure. Night, and thanks." He glanced back briefly at the tall, black haired man in the cell. "Night, Brother Bret."

"G'night, Brother Bart. Give my love to the misses."

XXXXXXXX

The room looked the same as when he'd left it. Tired and sad, and its occupant matched its mood perfectly. He pulled off his dusty coat and dropped it on a chair, followed slowly by his shirt and pants. Last of all the boots, and they crashed heavily to the floor.

He moved the gun belt, laying it on the pillow, and shoved the saddlebags to the floor with his foot. He was too tired to care and was asleep almost as soon as he laid his head down. He slept without moving, without dreaming, almost without breathing. Nothing penetrated his sleep until the pounding on the door started. He slept through the first few minutes of it, groggily rolling out of bed with a gun in his right hand while he opened the door with his left.

"Mr. Maverick?" The questioner was an earnest looking young fellow, wearing a brown suit and no gun. "Did I wake you?"

"Freeman?" was the only thing that came from the gambler.

"Yes, sir. I've already seen your brother this morning and he told me you were here. May I come in?"

There was no immediate answer, but the door opened and the gun was lowered. It was quickly reholstered, and the gambler found his pants and put them on. He pointed at an empty chair as he reached for his shirt. "Sit."

"Sorry, Mr. Maverick. I was sure you would be up already."

"Time?"

"Almost nine o'clock. Your brother said you got in last night."

The gambler nodded and yawned. "Late. I rode for three days. Gotta have food. Dining room downstairs?"

"They should be open. We can talk some there, but there are certain things we'll need to come back up here to discuss."

"Fine." Bart finished getting into his boots, grabbed his hat and gun belt, and led the way out of the room.

A few minutes later they were drinking coffee and waiting for bacon and eggs. Porter Freeman had been talking non-stop, filling Maverick in on background details about Danny Fletcher and his father, the Reverend Ralph Fletcher. He'd said nothing of any great consequence so far, and Bart had been paying half-hearted attention, at best. Until the name Cherry Smith was mentioned. "What about Cherry?"

"She was Danny's fiancé. The last one to see him alive, except the killer. Do you know her?"

The answer was studied, thoughtful. "Maybe. Saloon girl, brown hair, blue eyes, real delicate hands. Deals a mean game of poker."

The young attorney looked confused. "The physical description fits, but Miss Smith is the school marm."

"The what?"

"Uh, the school marm. Has been for the whole year. Real nice young lady."

The gambler blinked once, twice, then shook his head as the waitress brought their breakfast. "Must be mistaken," he mumbled. "Tell me more about her."

"They were supposed to be married in a few weeks. In Ralph Fletcher's church, of course."

Bart groaned. Could this get any worse? "What was Fletcher doin' cheatin' at poker?"

The lawyer shook his head. "Nobody says he was, except your brother. Danny was trying to win enough money to buy Cherry a house as a wedding present."

That answered Bart's unspoken question. It had gotten worse, way worse. No wonder the town was expecting a hanging. The way it looked right now, Hobbs, New Mexico was liable to get what it was waiting for.


	3. Back-Shooters and Liars

Chapter 2 – Back-Shooters and Liars

Back upstairs in the sad, dilapidated hotel room. It didn't look any better in daylight than it did in the dark. Bart picked his saddlebags up from the floor and the attorney once again sat down. "Now, what was so important that it be private?"

The young attorney fidgeted nervously before he got down to business. "There's a lot more to know about Danny Fletcher than what I told you earlier."

The look he received was skeptical, at best. "Such as?"

"Danny Fletcher has a brother. A half-breed named Tommy Sampson. His father was Comanche."

The gambler raised an eyebrow before sitting on the bed. "Were they brought up together?"

"For a while. Danny's mother lived with the Comanche's until Tommy was five or six, then she took Danny and left. She died later on, and Danny went to live with Reverend Ralph."

"And Tommy?"

"Stayed with his pa, went by his Comanche name, Tosahwi. White Knife."

"They know each other now?"

Freeman shook his head. "I think so."

"Is that all?"

"Well . . . "

"Spit it out, Porter. Ain't enough time for you to hesitate."

"Somebody's been supplying the Comanche's with guns."

If the attorney was anticipating any kind of reaction, he didn't get one. He thought the older brother was a difficult man to read, probably the result of his profession. The younger brother wasn't any easier; but then he too was a gambler. Porter Freeman had met few men that made their living manipulating a deck of cards; perhaps the trait was a common one among them.

"Where did Danny fit into all this?"

Emboldened by the urging he'd received to 'spit it out,' the barrister did just that. "Some few in town thought Danny might be involved in it. The gun-running. Because of Tommy."

"Any proof?"

"None that I know of."

Bart grew silent. What did all this have to do with his brother?

"How did Bret get involved?"

That was one Porter Freeman couldn't answer. "I don't know, Mr. Maverick. He had some suspicions about the connection between Danny and Tosahwi, and then there was the poker. The night Danny was murdered wasn't the first time your brother suspected him of cheating."

That finally brought a reaction. "He knew Fletcher was cheatin' and he played poker with him anyway?"

"I didn't say your brother knew he was cheating. He suspected Danny of cheating."

"Did he tell you that?"

The attorney nodded but remained silent. Bart reached into the saddlebags he was still holding and pulled out a deck of cards. "Come with me." He moved to the table at the far end of the room and took a seat, and Freeman followed him. In just a minute the deck was shuffled and cut, and for the next five minutes the gambler proceeded to show his brother's lawyer one illegal move after another with the cards. When he finished the barrister was thoroughly astounded. "My brother is every bit as adept at that as I am. There was no speculation about the cheating. Bret knew there was cheatin' going on."

"Do you . . . "

Porter was interrupted before he could continue with the question. "No. We don't cheat. But when you know how, it's easy enough to catch somebody else doin' it. And Bret would never accuse someone without being certain."

The counselor had one more bit of information to impart. "Bret visited Reverend Ralph before Danny was killed. Two or three days before. He didn't tell me what the visit was about."

"Did he go to see Cherry Smith, too?"

The question was unexpected. "I don't know."

The gambler sighed and stared searchingly at Porter Freeman for a long, awkward minute. "Anything else?"

"Not that I can think of."

"How many people live in this town?"

"Maybe two hundred. Does that matter?"

"It could. Why hasn't the trial started yet?"

"Sheriff had to send for the circuit judge. He'll be here next week."

"What about a Prosecutor?"

"We've got one of those. Thaddeus Milburn. Born and raised in Hobbs. Twice my age, at the very least."

"Anything I should know about him?"

"Very proper gentleman. Doesn't believe in gambling, drinking, or smoking. Never been married."

"Does he have any other business interests?"

Attorney Freeman smiled slightly. "That's a curious question. Rumor is he's a silent partner in the bank. What does that have to do with the trial?

"Maybe nothing. You have an office where?"

"Little white house, next to the bank. My name's on the front door. I'm a border in the house, too. Mrs. Nellie Collins owns the place, and she was kind enough to rent me the office. She's the widow of the former sheriff. Sweetest woman on the face of the earth. I'm not the only one that thinks your brother's innocent. Miss Nellie does, too. She's awful fond of Bret; he'd been living there for more than two weeks when Danny was murdered. She'd be pleased to meet you."

"And just why do you think he's innocent?"

"I like Bret. He's pleasant and funny, and a gentleman. He treats everybody the same, no matter who they are. And he's not that kind of man."

"What kind of man would that be?"

"A back-shooter."

XXXXXXXX

The young attorney had a prospective client to visit, so the gambler walked down to the white boarding house alone. Porter Freeman's name was indeed on the front door, under the title 'Attorney at Law,' and Bart knocked gently. Within seconds he heard a feminine voice sing out "Coming!" and he waited patiently for Mrs. Collins to make an appearance at the door.

The woman that opened the front door wasn't at all what Bart Maverick expected. The description 'widow of the former sheriff' conjured up images of a plump, jolly, white-haired grandmotherly type, and Nellie Collins was anything but. She was a lady in her early fifties, well built and dressed quite attractively, with light brown hair and beautiful hands. The only thing that looked as expected was the smile on her face that was set off by bright blue eyes. "Yes?" she asked at first, but before Maverick could answer her, she added, "Oh my. You're a Maverick, aren't you? Please come in. I'm Nellie Collins."

He tipped his hat politely before removing it altogether. "Yes, ma'am, Bart Maverick, to be exact. Bret's my brother. I hope I'm not botherin' you."

"Oh, no, Mr. Maverick, I've been expecting you. I had the feeling you'd be along sooner rather than later. Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?"

"Bart, please ma'am. Tea would be most welcome. Do you have a few minutes? I'd like to talk to you."

"Certainly, Bart. But you must call me Nellie. I can't have Bret's brother addressing me as Mrs. Collins."

"Alright, Nellie, thank you. I spoke with Porter Freeman this mornin'. He gave me quite a lot of information but thought you might be able to provide me with a bit more. I understand Bret was rentin' a room from you?"

Nellie nodded as she poured a cup of tea and handed it to the young gambler. "He was indeed. He'd been here two weeks or more when Danny Fletcher was killed. He'd probably be here still if Frank Hopper hadn't come and arrested him for the murder. Which I'm sure he didn't commit."

His face wore a serious expression, but his eyes were full of life. "Why is that, Nellie? You don't know Bret very well, why are you so sure of his innocence?"

"Because he told me he didn't kill young Fletcher, and he's not the kind of man to lie."

' _No,'_ Bart thought, _'he's not the kind of man to lie.'_


	4. Deal Me In

Chapter 3 – Deal Me In

The jail bore an eerie resemblance to his hotel room – it didn't look any better in the daylight than it had in the dark. Neither did Frank Hopper, who was pouring himself a cup of coffee. "You back?"

"It would appear so."

Bret was staring out the small window in the cell and turned his head at the sound of Bart's voice. "You look better."

"Sleep always helps." He palmed his Colt and handed it, grip first, to the sheriff. "I figured you'd want this."

"Much obliged," came the answer. "There's coffee if you want some."

"For my brother, too?"

Hopper nodded. "Why not?"

The gambler poured a cup of coffee and handed it through the bars of the cell to his brother. "What about you?"

Bart shook his head. "It's a long story. I'll explain later." He paused and grinned. "You got a minute?"

"Actually, I'm supposed to be somewhere just now. Can we do this later?"

"Hilarious, Pappy. Have a seat."

Hopper gave both Mavericks' a quick glance at the familial term but said nothing. He sat down at his desk and began sorting papers, attempting to ignore the whispered conversation that passed between the bars.

"Saw Porter this mornin'. How long have you been in town?"

"Couple a weeks."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Two words. Ginny Malone."

"She went somewhere I couldn't go."

"Why didn't you let Pappy know where you were?"

The prisoner shrugged his shoulders. "Because I didn't wanna answer questions."

"Fight?"

"No."

"Disagreement?"

"No."

"What then?"

Bret shook his head and handed Bart's words back to him. "Long story."

The younger man sighed. He was hard-pressed to out stubborn his brother, and now was neither the time or the place to try. "Alright, when this is all over, we can explain a lot to each other."

"Agreed."

"What did you go see the Reverend Fletcher about?"

"Danny and Tommy."

"And guns?"

Bret nodded. "That too."

"Why, Bret? What does the Comanche's havin' guns have to do with a cheatin' poker player?"

The front door to the jail opened and Porter Freeman hurried in. "Morning, Sheriff. I need to see my client and his brother."

"I'll have to lock you all in the cell."

Bret expected a reaction from Bart, but got none. His brother had been more than skittish about being locked inside a cell since his months' long incarceration in Montana. "Bart? You alright with that?"

The younger man shrugged. "Sure."

Hopper grabbed a long gun from the rack, tucked it under his arm, and unlocked the cell door. The brother and the attorney stepped inside, and Hopper locked them in. He replaced the long gun and resumed the seat at his desk. All three men moved to the far end of the cell, and the brothers waited for the barrister to say something.

"Bart, after I left you this morning I went to the schoolhouse to talk to Cherry Smith."

"Mmm-hmm."

"She wasn't there. Note on the door says schools closed today."

Bret asked the question. "Is that unusual?"

"For Cherry, very unusual. I can't think of a day that school's been closed since she's been here."

"Bret, did you ever meet Miss Smith?" There was a curious tone in the young gambler's question.

"Fletcher's fiancé? Once, at a church social. Why?"

The mention of a Maverick attending a church social would normally cause a reaction from the listener; it was not the type of event that either frequented. This time the remark seemed to pass unnoticed. "And not in a saloon?"

A shake of the head accompanied a quizzical look. "Somebody you know?"

Bart hesitated before answering. "Last time I was in El Paso. There was a girl dealin' poker named Cherry Smith. Porter says she fits my description."

"Blue eyes, brown hair, real refined-lookin' hands."

A nod of the head from the younger brother. "One and the same."

"You sure?"

"I haven't met the Cherry Smith that's the schoolmarm here, if that's what you mean. Sure as I can be otherwise."

Freeman interrupted. "Why is that significant? If it's the same girl, I mean? People can change professions."

The brothers exchanged glances and both burst out laughing. Bart was the first one to regain control and explain. "If you'd ever met Cherry Smith in El Paso, Porter, you wouldn't ask that question. How long did you tell me she's been here teachin' school?"

"Since last August. More than nine months."

"Did she live here before that?"

The attorney shook his head. "No. She came to stay about a week before school started."

"Uh-huh. How long since you been in El Paso, Brother Bart?"

"A year. Maybe more."

"So it could be the same girl. I still don't see why that's significant." Porter Freeman appeared confused, and neither of the Maverick's made a move to resolve his confusion.

Bart rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "There is a barber in this town, right?"

"On the other side of the tobacco shop."

"Porter, where did you say the school was?" The attorney turned his attention from his client to the newcomer.

"I didn't, Bart. It's on the south end of town, about half a mile. Are you going to pay Miss Smith a visit tomorrow?"

"I am, when school's out. Why don't you go with me?"

"Alright. Stop by my office when you're ready. It should be interesting."

"It better be enlightenin', Porter."

Hopper cleared his throat noisily from his desk. "Time to go, Maverick. You too, Freeman."

All three men stood, and the younger gambler grabbed his brother by the shoulders. "I'll be back later. You need anything?"

"A good bath."

"Wish I could bring you one."

"Cigars."

"That's easier." He reached inside his jacket and pulled out four or five. "This'll keep you for now."

The sheriff unlocked the cell door, and two of the three men walked out. He closed it quickly behind the attorney, locking it before he returned to his desk.

"Bart?"

"Yeah, Pappy?"

"Go see the Reverend."

"About anything in particular?"

"Life before Danny. And make sure he tells you about Jackson Story."

Bart started to ask another question but caught the look his brother gave him and quickly decided against it. Whoever or whatever Jackson Story was, it was crystal clear that it wasn't information Frank Hopper needed. Porter held the door open and waited outside for Maverick. "Who in the world is Jackson Story?"

A shake of the head said it all. "You got me, counselor. But I'll let you know when I find out."


	5. Heaven

Chapter 4 – Heaven

"Bret."

"Bret."

"Bret."

Finally a swatch of curly black hair appeared at the window in the back of the cell. "Bart?"

"Yeah, it's me. I got more questions. I didn't figure Hopper would be real happy to see me back so fast."

"Jail's locked up. He went someplace."

"Let's get at it then. How many times did you play poker with Fletcher?"

"Just twice. I knew he was doin' somethin' the first night, but I couldn't catch him. The kid was good, Bart. The second night he got cocky and slipped up."

"Who else played?"

"The first night it was Remy Miller and Fred Barton. The second game had Homer Danvers in it, too. Danvers saw what Fletcher pulled but wouldn't speak up about it."

"You play in that excuse of a saloon?" Bart hadn't been inside but had seen enough to know that it reminded him of the place they grew up playing poker in, the Little Bend Bar.

"You mean Lollie's?"

"Where else?"

"Those two games, yeah."

"Where else is there to play?"

"Couple times a week there's a game at Miss Nellie's. It's private; Fletcher wasn't welcome at those."

"You ever see Tosahwi?"

A short chuckle came from inside the jail. "Regularly. At Miss Nellie's poker games."

"So only one brother cheated?"

"Yup."

"What do the townsfolk think of Tommy?"

"Got a lot of friends. He seemed to be well liked."

"For a breed?" Bart disliked the terminology but needed to know what people really thought of Fletcher's half-brother.

Bret didn't like the word any more than Bart did, but he understood the reason behind the question. "For a breed."

"Anybody else I should know about?"

"One more. Joanie Maxwell. She's a saloon girl at Lollie's."

"Lollie's is big enough to have a saloon girl?"

"Not really, but they do anyway. Rumor says she was Fletcher's side-girl."

"Rumor?"

"I wasn't here long enough to find out for sure."

"You still got a room at Miss Nellie's?"

"Yeah. Through the end of the week."

There was a long pause while the younger Maverick tried to determine how to ask the next question without antagonizing his brother. "Where's Ginny? In case I need her for anything."

"She's undercover."

"Where, Bret?"

"You can't reach her."

"Bret."

The only sound in the air was that of a wagon moving down the street. Finally a sigh could be heard inside the cell. "Kansas City. Workin' as Sammy Jo Withers at Diamond Lil's." Bart added it the list he'd been making. "You can't contact her, Bart. Not even if they hang me."

"I won't contact her. Especially if they hang you."

XXXXXXXX

Bart Maverick's next stop was another visit to Nellie Collin's boarding house. The best idea seemed to be that he move into Bret's room there, assuming Miss Nellie had no objections. He found her most receptive to the suggestion and returned to the hotel to gather his belongings.

Miss Nellie's was much more comfortable than the gloomy, run-down hotel had been. He felt at ease in his brother's former room, knowing he was lodging with a well-respected town member that fervently believed Bret innocent. And it provided close access to the twice-weekly poker game that he was most anxious to partake in.

He was moving his belongings into the room when Nellie Collins appeared at his door. "Bart, have you had much chance to talk to Bret about staying here? Did he tell you about the private poker games in the parlor? I assume you play poker, too?"

"I do, Miss Nellie, and he did tell me about 'em. I'm real eager to play with the group, if I can. When's the next one?"

A smile crossed her face as she answered. "You're more than welcome. The next one's tomorrow night, starting right after supper. That's usually about seven o'clock. I'll introduce you to everyone once they arrive."

"Is Tommy Sampson still playin'? I need to speak with him."

"He is. I don't guarantee how he'll react to you, with Bret bein' arrested and all. I'll talk to him when he gets here. Then it's up to the both of you to work it out."

He nodded, grateful for her offer to try and make it work. "Thanks, I appreciate that. I've got some questions to ask him if he'll let me."

"Oh, I think he'll let you ask your questions. I'm just not sure he'll give you any answers. By the way, I put fresh sheets on the bed, and if you can give me about an hour, I can draw a bath for you. How does that sound?"

The gambler had to smile. "It sounds like I just moved into heaven. After three days on the trail I could use a hot bath. You're an angel, Miss Nellie."

"No, far from it. Just trying to take care of my boarders. I'll let you know when it's ready."

He put his clothes away in the closet and spent the better part of the hour going over the notes he'd taken at the jail. A lot of people to talk to, and not a lot of time to find the real killer. He'd worked on tighter deadlines, but none with so important an outcome. He was still studying the list when there was a knock on the door, and he glanced up to find Nellie Collins with two towels in her hands. "All ready to go. Down this hall and turn right at the last door."

After the bath he felt considerably better. He thought of Bret's request earlier in the day for the same thing and sympathized, but at the moment a bath for the accused was out of the question. Slipping on a clean shirt and vest, then his tie and black coat, he closed the door behind him and headed for Lollie's. Nellie Collins watched him leave and shook her head. "Two men that look like that in one family. Doesn't seem fair, somehow."


	6. The Walking Wounded

Chapter 5 – The Walking Wounded

 **To my readers: I am going in to the hospital later today for an operation. I might be away from the computer for as long as two weeks. Sorry to leave you in the middle of a story, but it will continue as soon as I am back home. Thanks for your interest!**

The gambler's instincts had been correct. Lollie's was even smaller than the saloon he'd grown up playing poker in, and looked like it had been there for a long, long time. There were only two poker tables and one Faro table, surrounded by four or five smaller tables. The bar took up almost a third of the entire saloon and was in bad need of repair.

There was a forlorn looking redhead leaning on the end of the bar, and he walked over and stood next to her. "You look awful sad tonight," he chided her gently. "Would a drink help?"

Her eyes said no but she shook her head yes. "A drink always helps," was her reply, and he signaled the bartender. "Absinthe," she ordered, and he almost flinched. It wasn't too long ago that someone in New Orleans had ordered absinthe, and an unpleasant memory flashed through his head.

"Coffee," he told the bartender, and she watched him through wary eyes.

"You ain't drinkin'?"

"No, ma'am. Not tonight. Lookin' to play a little poker later." He hadn't been, but it was as good an excuse as any.

"You got a name?"

"Bart. How about you?"

"Joanie. You new in town, Bart?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just got in last night."

"You here for the hangin'?"

It seemed to be a foregone conclusion there was gonna be a hanging, and Bart had no problem with that – as long as the man they hung wasn't named Maverick. "Hanging?"

"You mean you ain't heard? Where'd you come from?"

"Texas. Tell me about it."

"Son of the minister was shot in the back. Some gambler got arrested for it. Trial starts next week."

"He guilty?"

She finished the absinthe and looked at him expectantly. He nodded to the bartender, who poured her another. "Who knows? Ain't got nobody else to blame, though." She looked down at her refilled glass, and a despondent tone crept into her voice. "Nobody else in town would kill Danny. They was all . . . nobody in town."

"Did you know him?"

Her head came up quickly, almost as if startled by the question. "Who, the gambler?"

"No, the man that got killed."

She downed the second absinthe and stared at him. There was a single tear in her eye. "Yeah, I knew him." She brushed the tear away with the back of her hand. "He was a friend of . . . he was a good man. Didn't deserve no back-shootin'."

Bart shrugged. "Some things just can't be helped."

"Lousy gambler. Well, he won't shoot nobody else. Just because . . . "

He waited to see if she'd finish her thought. She picked up the empty glass and looked in it, as if the very act of doing so would refill it. The bartender shot a glance at him and Bart nodded again. Joanie smiled at him when the glass was filled with the green-hued spirit.

He softly asked, "Just because what?"

"Huh? Oh, just because Danny mighta been doin' a little cheatin.' Gamblers all cheat, so I don't know what he was complainin' about. Didn't hafta . . . shoot Danny."

"Danny?"

"Danny Fletcher, my . . . friend. My . . . oh, hell, now I ain't never gonna get outta this town."

He took a sip of his coffee and asked the next question, hoping that by now she'd gotten enough liquor in her to keep answering him. "Sounds like Danny was more than just a friend."

"He . . . he was . . . wait a minute. Why do you wanna know?"

"No reason. You just sounded so . . . sad, and disappointed. Like he was important to you." Had he pushed her too far, too fast, because the time to exonerate Bret was so short? He said nothing further and drank his coffee, then straightened his stance as if ready to leave.

The girl looked even more miserable. "You leavin'? Already?"

His voice was apologetic, regretful. "I don't have to."

She hooked her hand over his arm. "Don't go. I ain't got nobody else . . . to talk to." There was silence for a minute; he could tell she was deciding whether to tell him any more. When she began again she sounded as mournful as an orphaned hound. "I . . . I . . . loved him. We was gonna run away together. Soon as he got a stake. But it . . . it never happened."

He took one of her hands in his. "I'm sorry, Joanie. It doesn't seem fair."

She wiped her eyes again. "It ain't fair. She gets all the sympathy, and I don't get nothin'."

"She? Was there another woman?"

She nodded her head and stared at the bar. "His pa . . . the reverend . . . wanted him to marry somebody else. Somebody more . . . suit . . . suitable."

"But he loved you." Bart wasn't sure if they were going anywhere or just talking in circles, but as long as she kept pouring out her heart to him, he was going to keep encouraging her.

She raised her eyes to meet his and tried her best to smile. "He did. He said so. That's why he was cheatin' – so we could get outta town before . . . before he had to . . . "

"Marry her?"

"Yeah . . . marry her."

So . . . Bret was right, Joanie Maxwell was involved with Danny Fletcher. But she made it sound like Fletcher had no intention of marrying the schoolmarm, and that was contrary to everything Bart had heard so far. It took a minute to realize that Joanie was talking to him again. " . . . you gonna stay here long?"

"No, Joanie, not long at all. Matter of fact, I have to leave now. I'll be back later to see if there's a poker game goin'. You be here tonight?"

"Mmm-hmm." Frankly, she looked like she could barely stand up, and he doubted if she'd be around if he came back later. It was his fault, he knew, for plying her with drinks, but the absinthe had been her choice, not his. A few seconds later she picked up her almost empty glass and staggered to the nearest table, then dropped into a chair. Within moments she laid her head down on her arm and closed her eyes. The gambler set down what was left of his coffee and walked towards the batwing doors of the saloon. Joanie didn't even look up as he left.


	7. Unarmed

Chapter 6 – Unarmed

 **I'm back! I was in the hospital and rehab for three weeks instead of two, but I am at home and** __ **determined. Thanks for reading my Maverick fiction!**

Bart stopped at the livery to check on his horse, who'd been in rough shape when they arrived last night. The gelding's name was Noble, and they'd been together a long time. Bart had ridden him hard out of necessity, and was determined to make sure 'the old man' had sufficiently recovered. They were alike in a lot of ways, and there was genuine affection between the two.

The gambler arranged for another rubdown, a task he would normally perform himself when time wasn't in short supply, then spent a few precious minutes in the stall. "I'll be in tomorrow, I swear," he promised, and chuckled softly when Noble nickered in response. "And yes, I'll find an apple for you somewhere." It was almost a standing joke between the two; Bart produced the treat and the horse ate it in practically one bite.

He left the livery and returned to the jail, not sure if Frank Hopper would let him in again to see his brother. He was in luck – the sheriff was out for supper and his part-time deputy was currently occupying the office.

The deputy's name was Billy Connors and he seemed a pleasant enough fellow. The gambler once again surrendered his Colt and he was allowed inside the cell, as he had been earlier in the day. "Just couldn't stay away?" Bret asked, and Bart grinned.

"I had a visit with Joanie Maxwell. You were on the right track – she was hooked up with Fletcher. Course her view of the relationship was a little different than what I expected." They sat side-by-side on the cot in the cell and Bart told his brother everything he could remember. When he was finished Bret remained silent for a minute or two, before asking one question.

"You think she believed what she was tellin' you?"

"You mean about Fletcher lovin' her and wantin' to run away with her? Yeah, I do. She wanted to leave Hobbs, that's for certain. She's desperate to go anywhere else. But there's somethin' that bothers me. She seemed to wanna hang the shooting on you just because she couldn't think of anybody else that woulda shot him. And she admits he was cheatin' at poker – says you had no right to complain because all gamblers cheat. I thought you'd get a kick outta that."

"So long as everybody in town don't believe it. You move into Miss Nellie's?"

The younger man nodded. "Yeah, I'm in your room. First poker game's tomorrow night. I'll get a chance to talk to Tommy Sampson then."

"Let's hope. You got plans for tonight?"

"I'm goin' out to the church with Porter – there's a revival tonight. Anything I need to know about Reverend Ralph?"

"Don't turn your back on him."

Hopper returned from supper and Bart knew it was time to go. Both men stood and embraced before the younger man pulled back. "Look, Bret, there's somethin' you need to know. Ain't gonna be no walkin' up the steps to the gallows – I'll find a way to get you out."

There was something in those coal black eyes for just a moment; Bart saw it flash there and then vanish. "I know you will, Brother Bart. I know you will."

XXXXXXXX

The gambler and the attorney took Freeman's buggy and rode in relative silence out to the church. Maverick was taken aback by the number of wagons, carriages, and buggies that surrounded the building, and expressed his surprise to the attorney. "Not much to do in these parts," Porter explained. "Drink and gamble or go to church."

"Or sell guns to the Comanche's."

Freeman nodded. "I would imagine there's not a lot doing that."

"As long as we find out who is. Anything I should watch out for?"

"Tread lightly around Mrs. Barkley. She's very protective of the Reverend."

"Oh?"

"She's a long-time congregation member. And a widow woman who thinks it's her job to defend Reverend Fletcher. Stay away from her tongue and you'll be fine."

The revival was typical of others that Maverick had attended; singing, praying, preaching and testifying. It went on for almost two hours and ended soon after nine o'clock. "Introduce me to Reverend Ralph, would you, Porter?"

Ralph Fletcher was a big man, taller and considerably heavier than Bart. He was clean-shaven and mostly grey-haired, with a firm handshake and the gentlest eyes the gambler had ever seen. A good attribute for a man of the cloth.

"Sorry to meet you under these circumstances," Bart explained. "I'd be much obliged if we could talk sometime tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Fletcher repeated. "I'm fairly busy tomorrow."

"My time's a little short. I'll come around anytime you can spare."

The reverend looked the gambler over carefully, then nodded. "Alright, Mr. Maverick, I do understand. Can you be here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, sir, I can. Here at the church?"

"I think that's the best place for a meeting, don't you?"

Bart returned the nod. "I'm sure you're right. Until tomorrow morning, Reverend."

The drive back to the boarding house was a bit livelier than the trip out. "So, you're meeting Reverend Fletcher at eight o'clock. Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, Porter, I think this meetin' should be private. If he has anything to say, he's more likely to say it to me if my brother's lawyer ain't there."

"Alright, you have a point. Just make sure you're on time, he's a real stickler for punctuality."

"Don't worry, I will be."

XXXXXXXX

"I'm gonna lock up for the night, Maverick. You need anything before I go?"

Bret looked up from his cot before answering. "Nope, sheriff, unless you got any of that coffee left."

Hopper glanced over at the coffee pot. "I might." Once he'd poured a cup, he brought it to the cell and handed it to the prisoner.

"Thanks."

The sheriff stood there for a minute before speaking. "Why'd you do it, Maverick? Why'd you shoot the kid in the back?"

"I told you more than once, sheriff. I didn't shoot Fletcher."

"Sure. And I'm just supposed to believe that somebody broke into your room at the boarding house, stole your gun, and killed Danny with it."

"Yeah, because that's what happened."

"If you were playin' poker, why weren't you wearin' your gun?"

"I don't need a gun to play poker."

"I ain't never seen no gambler play without one somewhere."

"I didn't have my revolver on that night, Hopper. I didn't say I was unarmed."

"So you did have a gun somewhere."

"Never said I didn't. But not the Colt. I had a derringer with me. That's not what Fletcher was shot with."

Frank Hopper walked away from Maverick's cell. "Alright, I ain't gonna argue with you no more. But if you didn't shoot him, who did? And why did they steal your gun to do it?"

"I'd like answers to the same questions, sheriff. That's why I sent for my brother. He'll find out who's behind it."

"And what if he don't?"

Bret looked at the lawman like he'd just asked the world's dumbest question. "Then I guess you get to hang me."

Sheriff Hopper picked up his keys and headed for the front door. "Night, gambler."

"Night, lawman."

The door opened and closed, and Bret heard the key turn in the lock. He moved across the cell to his window and stared out at the night sky. "Don't fail me, little brother. I still got a lotta poker games left to play." He finished his coffee and set the cup down on his cot. "And a woman left to love."


	8. We Were All Something Else

Chapter 7 – We Were All Something Else

It had been a long night, playing poker at Lollie's until dawn and trying to question Miller, Barton, and Danvers at the same time. Miller and Barton swore they knew nothing about Danny Fletcher's cheating and Danvers refused to say anything at all. When the game had finally run out of steam right around sunrise, Maverick offered to buy breakfast if any of the three were willing to go with him. Danvers was the only one that accepted.

"Why'd you come to breakfast when you spent the whole night dodgin' my questions?" Bart asked once they'd been seated at the café and had their coffee.

"Coupla reasons," the answer came back. "Miller's got a big mouth and Barton works for Thaddeus Milburn."

"The prosecutor?"

"The prosecutor."

"Thanks, Danvers. I didn't know. Bret said you saw what Fletcher was doin' while the game was being played. Is that the truth?"

Homer Danvers nodded. "Yeah, he wasn't real subtle about it. Looked like Danny'd had too much to drink and gotten sloppy. Your brother warned him a couple times before he actually called him on it."

"Had Miller and Barton caught on?"

Breakfast arrived, and both men stopped talking until the waitress was gone. "I don't think so. Miller wasn't any more sober than Fletcher, and Barton ain't the world's brightest, even on his best days."

"And what about you? Why wouldn't you back Bret when he finally caught Fletcher cheating?"

"I gotta live in this town, Maverick. People wouldn't take kindly to somebody that accused the Reverend's son of cheatin' at poker."

"And after Fletcher was dead?"

"And provide your brother with a reason to shoot the kid?"

"So you don't think he did it, either, do you?"

Homer shook his head. "Nope. I've played against plenty of gamblers. Your brother . . . and you . . . you're a different breed. Can't see either one of you pullin' somethin' stupid like that. No, takes a certain kind of man to shoot somebody in the back. The Maverick men don't fit the bill." He looked up at Bart and grinned. "Leastways, not the ones I've met."

"Any thoughts on who might?"

"One or two. Only problem is, they didn't have a reason."

"Mind tellin' me who you got in mind?"

"Tommy Sampson. There was rumors of a disagreement between the two."

"What kind of a disagreement? Poker? Women?"

"Guns."

One word raised more questions in the gambler's mind. Were the brothers supplying guns to the Comanche's? Or was one involved and the other one not? Maybe neither had anything to do with gun running, but wanted in on it. On and on his mind raced with possibilities.

"How . . . ?"

Danvers shook his head. "I got no more answers for ya, Maverick. That's all I know."

"Anybody else?"

"Hopper."

"Frank Hopper?"

"Yep."

"You got a reason for that or you just speculatin'?"

"I got a reason."

Maverick finished his breakfast and waited, but there was no explanation. He pushed his plate away and sat back while the man with him drank coffee. The gambler checked his watch and knew he had to leave to make the appointment with Reverend Ralph. "You gonna share it with me?"

Danvers shook his head. "That's one you're gonna hafta find out for yourself."

XXXXXXXX

There was a buggy waiting outside the church when Bart got there, and he assumed it was the Reverends. He tied Noble up and walked into the dark, cool building. There was no sign of anyone, and the gambler took a seat towards the front of the church. At exactly eight o'clock the side door opened and the Reverend Ralph appeared. "I appreciate a man that's prompt, Mr. Maverick."

"As do I, Reverend. I won't waste your time. Do you believe my brother killed your son?"

"Yes, sir, I do. All the evidence points in his direction."

"You mean his gun being the murder weapon."

"And the accusation of Danny cheating at cards."

"There's a witness to substantiate the claim."

"Who, Homer Danvers? He refused to say anything when the sheriff questioned him."

Bart nodded in agreement. "That's true, he did. But he will now."

"And what about the gun? Even your brother admitted it was his." Reverend Ralph sat down two or three feet behind Bart and folded his hands in front of him.

"Stolen. Bret insists he came to see you before Danny's murder."

"That's a lie, sir. I never spoke with your brother."

"What about Joanie Maxwell, Reverend? Did you speak with Joanie?"

There was a hesitation in Fletcher's voice. "I . . . don't know the young lady, sir."

"She works at Lollie's, Reverend. She was your son's . . . mistress."

"Nonsense. Danny was going to marry Cherry Smith. He didn't know this Maxwell woman."

"Miss Maxwell insists that she and your son were goin' to run away together; that in fact he was cheatin' at cards to win enough money for them to do just that."

"She is mistaken. Perhaps she meant his half-brother, Tommy Sampson."

"Your son was blonde-headed and blue-eyed, wasn't he, Reverend?"

"Yes."

"And Tommy Sampson's father was a Comanche Indian? Do you really expect me to believe she mistook one for the other?"

"I don't expect you to believe anything you don't want to believe, Mr. Maverick. But your brother shot my son in the back, and I intend to see him hang for it."

Bart was getting nowhere fast with Reverend Ralph until he remembered what Bret had told him, and he changed the direction of his questions. "How long have you been a man of the cloth, Mr. Fletcher?"

"Most of my adult life."

"Most? But not all? What was your occupation before you became a minister?"

"I don't see the relevance of the question, sir."

It sounded like the gambler had hit a nerve. "Would you rather answer it here, for me, or on the witness stand in front of a jury?"

Fletcher stood up then, pulling himself to his full height laboriously. "What difference does that make?"

"I don't know yet, Reverend. But if it doesn't matter, why don't you want to tell me?"

There was silence for more than a minute while Bart sat patiently, waiting for Fletcher's reply. The Reverend walked to the very front of the little church, then turned and came back to stand next to the man asking the questions. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, and the words came slowly and quietly. "I was . . . I was a gambler. And a gun for hire."


	9. Peppermints and Cigars

Chapter 8 – Peppermints and Cigars

"A . . . gambler. Faro or poker?"

The Reverend nodded. "Mostly Faro. I wasn't as good at poker."

"How good were you at cheatin'?"

"Good enough. I'm not proud of it, Mr. Maverick. But that was a long time ago."

"And a hired gun?"

Fletcher sat down and stared at the floor. "I . . . yes."

"And you fathered Danny during that period?"

"Yes."

"Did you know about him? I mean, did you know he . . . "

"Existed? Yes. Once God found me, I would have married Danny's mother. But she'd gone off with Tommy's father, and I didn't see her again until Danny was almost ten years old. By that time she was quite ill and died soon after. Danny stayed with me after her death."

"And Tommy stayed with the Comanche's?"

"And his father. The brothers reconnected several years ago. Tommy's a good kid, despite . . . "

"Bein' a breed?"

"Yes."

"Who taught Danny to play poker? You?"

The Reverend nodded. "Yes."

"And to cheat?"

"No. I did not teach him to cheat people. I don't know where he learned that, but it wasn't from me." There was no reason to believe Fletcher, but Bart's instincts told him the Reverend had answered truthfully. It was easy enough to learn how to cheat at poker; it took practice, concentration, and experience to get to be an expert. Bret had pronounced Danny Fletcher 'good' at cheating, so it was something he'd learned to do a while ago. Had someone here in Hobbs been the one to teach him?

"You were a gun for hire."

"I'm not proud of it, Mr. Maverick. But I was."

"When, Reverend? And where?"

"Does that really matter?"

Bart shook his head. "I don't know, but my brother seems to think it does. So, Mr. Fletcher, when and where?"

A great sigh accompanied the answer. "In Texas. After the war."

"For Texas independence?"

"Yes. Until a couple years after Danny was born."

The gambler had one more question to ask, and he had no idea what kind of an answer or reaction he was going to get. "And who or what is Jackson Story?"

Ralph Fletcher sucked in a breath, but before he could answer the front door to the church opened, and Mrs. Barkley appeared in the sunlight that cascaded inside. "Reverend Fletcher, I'm here for . . . oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you were busy."

The pastor rose and hurried to greet the woman. "We were just finishing up, Mrs. Barkley. Please do come in."

Bart got to his feet; it was clear he wasn't going to find out anything about Jackson Story today. With his hat in his hand, he followed the reverend down the church aisle. "We can finish this later, Mr. Fletcher. Tomorrow, perhaps?" and without waiting for an answer he put his hat back on, tipped it to Mrs. Barkley, and left via the door she'd just entered by. Since he'd been interrupted, maybe he could persuade his brother to answer the question.

He mounted the gelding and headed towards town. Time to go have a talk with the sheriff.

XXXXXXXX

"He had to go out to the Perry ranch," Billy Connors explained. "Don't know when he'll be back."

The youngest Maverick sighed and then nodded. "Mind if I see my brother while I'm here?"

"You need in the cell?"

"Nope. Not right now." He unbuckled his gun belt and handed it over. "I imagine you'll want this."

"Thanks. Go right ahead."

The older brother was already standing, leaning against the bars. "Uh-oh. That's you're 'I've had better mornin's' face." Was he really that easy to read, or was it just that easy for Bret? It really didn't matter which right now, and he did his best to look less disgruntled. "Too late. Meetin' with Fletcher must not have gone well."

"We were interrupted."

"Before he got to the important part, I take it."

"If you mean the part about Jackson Story, that's exactly what I mean. You wanna fill me in?"

Bret shook his head. "Not here. That's why I needed you to ask the reverend."

Another sigh, this one even more pronounced than the first one. "Then tell me this – is Story a person or a place?"

"Hey, I'm makin' a fresh pot of coffee. Either one of you want a cup?"

Bret nodded, and Bart turned his head to answer the deputy. "Just one, thanks."

"You gonna explain that to me? You've never turned down coffee before. Since you been here, you've already done it twice."

Connors brought over a cup when it was ready. Bart wondered if it was his imagination, or if the deputy really did seem friendlier than the sheriff. "Thanks, Billy."

He passed the cup through the bars to his brother. "Told you, it's a long story. One that has to wait till there ain't none of these between us." He fingered the bars of the cell as Bret watched him.

"Somethin's botherin' you." It wasn't a question, simply a statement of fact.

"Yeah, I want you cleared and outta there. I don't like bein' on either side of these bars."

Bret smiled. "I'm glad it ain't you in here." He took a swallow of coffee and actually grinned. "Connors makes better coffee than the sheriff."

"Speakin' of Hopper, what can you tell me about him?"

Bret's forehead wrinkled and he appeared puzzled. "Not much, why?"

"Somebody don't trust him, and I gotta find out why. Any ideas?"

"Pull up a chair, I'll tell you what I know."

Bart did as instructed, and Bret sat on the edge of the cot. "He don't say much, and nobody ever stops by just to talk. Even when it's just the two of us, he's real quiet. Haven't seen any kind of a woman in here, either. Never been friendly, even when I first met him. Spends most of his evenings right here. That's about all." He finished the coffee and handed the cup back through the bars of the cell. "Oh, one more thing. He writes a letter, most every day. Don't know who to, but every afternoon he walks the envelope over to the stage depot. And he rides a big bay mare. That's it, Bart. Not a lot to tell. Who don't trust him?"

"Danvers, but he wouldn't say why. Told me I had to find out for myself. He's ready to testify at the trial, by the way, to Fletcher's cheatin'. Believes you're innocent."

Bret grinned again. "That's one."

"Two. Miss Nellie believes you, too."

"Reverend Fletcher don't, though."

"How'd you know that?"

"He came to pray for my soul. At least he doesn't wanna shoot me."

That made Bart smile ironically. "No, he just wants to see you swingin' at the end of a rope. I gotta go. Gonna see if the barber's got any gossip before I ride out to see the schoolmarm."

"Yeah, just be careful with Miss Smith. She gives me a peculiar feelin'."

"Thought you only met her once."

"That's all. But she came with Fletcher when he was here."

Bart's eyebrow shot up. "She did? Have anything to say? And how'd she get along with the Reverend?"

"Didn't say much. Prayed with Ralph, then went back outside while we talked. She didn't seem real upset that Danny was dead. Almost like it was a relief."

"Maybe it was." Pause. "I'll be back this evenin', before the poker game. How you doin' with cigars? Anything else you need?"

Bret shook his head. "Cigars are fine. If you get by the general store, see if they got any peppermint candy, would ya? Been thinkin' about that lately for some reason, and it sure would be nice to have some." A few seconds passed, before, "And be careful. Especially around Tommy Sampson."

"Why Brother Bret, I didn't know you cared."

A hand reached out between the bars to swat at the man just about to leave, but Bart moved quickly and dodged the playful swipe. He was glad that Bret seemed to be staying in a good humor, considering the circumstances. "Behave, Brother Bart."

"I will, brother. I will."


	10. More Than One Story

Chapter 9 – More Than One Story

The barber seemed to know nothing of any consequence; quite unusual in a rather small town. Bart was still a bit early, so he stopped at the general store and bought two things – an apple and a bag of peppermint candies. The apple went in Noble's mouth and the candies in Bart's saddlebags. The ride to the little school was short, and he arrived as the last of the children were leaving for home.

He tied the gelding out front and went inside. The schoolhouse reminded him of the one he'd grown up attending and hadn't thought about in years – the one room school in Little Bend, Texas. It was still early in the year and the temperature hadn't turned hot yet; the inside of the building was cool and pleasant. He didn't make much noise for a man as big as he was, and he was almost at the teacher's desk before the girl looked up. Brown hair, blue eyes, delicate hands, and the same name – but not at all the Cherry Smith that Bart Maverick had known in El Paso, Texas. How could they be so much alike and yet be different people?

"Yes, sir, can I help you with something? Were you looking for one of the children? They've gone for the day."

"No, ma'am, not one of the children. Are you Cherry Smith?"

"Yes, I am. Were you . . . oh, you must be looking for the other Cherry Smith. A young lady from Texas, I believe. And from what I've been told, we look somewhat alike. I assure you, I am another person entirely, Mr. . . . "

"Maverick. Bart Maverick." There was no change in her eyes, her voice, her attitude. He might as well have said his name was Jones.

"Are you . . . of course you are. You must be. Bret Maverick's brother."

"I am, Miss Smith. But you are definitely not . . . not at all the lady from Texas."

"No, sir, as you can see. You're here . . . to try and prove your brother innocent, I assume."

"Yes, ma'am. He is innocent."

She shook her head emphatically. "I find that hard to believe, Mr. Maverick. My fiancé is, after all, dead. Shot in the back, with your brother's gun. After he was accused of cheating by that very same man."

"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Fletcher was cheating. A witness has come forward to support my brother's statement."

For the first time a note of hostility crept into her voice. "Oh? And how much did that cost you?"

There was no sense in prolonging the conversation – this was not the girl he'd believed her to be, and she had every right to be hostile. As far as she was concerned, his brother had killed the man she was going to marry. "I'm sorry for bothering you, Miss Smith." He turned around to leave and had taken a step before he heard her voice.

"Wait, please. I'm sorry, Mr. Maverick, you've done nothing wrong, and I was rude. You had a reason for coming here – what was it?"

"I was looking for the other Cherry Smith."

"And you thought . . . "

"Yes, ma'am. I did think that. But now that I've met you . . . this makes a whole lot more sense." And Joanie Maxwell made a whole lot more sense, too. Marry the schoolmarm, but keep the saloon girl on the side. Just in case.

"Why do you think he's innocent, Mr. Maverick?"

"Because I know my brother, ma'am. He'd never shoot someone in the back. No matter what they'd done to him. And certainly not over a poker game."

"He's a gambler, Mr. Maverick. Certainly he's been in gunfights before over a game of chance."

"Only in self-defense, Miss Smith."

"And yet Danny was shot in the back."

There didn't seem to be any point in trying to reason with the girl; she had her mind made up. Not that he could blame her – looking at just the known facts would convince anyone of his brother's guilt. Anyone that didn't know Bret Maverick. There was only one question left to ask. "Do you know Joanie Maxwell?"

Something changed, and it took a minute for Bart to realize just what it was. Whatever warmth and friendliness had existed in Cherry Smith's eyes vanished, and they became cold and hard. No matter her verbal answer, it was obvious she knew exactly who he meant.

"No, Mr. Maverick, I don't. Should I?"

XXXXXXXX

As he rode away from the schoolhouse it became clear that today wasn't going a whole lot better than yesterday. Dead-end after dead-end seemed to be the only road he was traveling down, and time was running short. In desperation he rode back to Miss Nellie's, hoping to discuss the day's events with Porter Freeman. The attorney wasn't at the boarding house, either in his room or office. Next he headed for the jail to fulfill his promise to Bret, which is where he found Freeman. _'Should have_ _come here first,'_ he thought as he climbed down from the gelding.

Once he'd handed his Colt over to the sheriff, the cell was unlocked and he joined Bret and Porter inside. His brother's eyes lit up when Bart gave him the small package wrapped in brown paper. "You remembered!"

"Of course I did. Wish the rest of the day had gone as well as your peppermints."

"Wasn't Miss Smith at school today either?" Porter immediately asked.

"Yeah, she was there. But the she that was there wasn't the she I expected." The attorney looked confused; the older brother understood perfectly.

"Not the Cherry Smith he was expecting to find," Bret explained. "But she resembled the girl in El Paso?"

"Coulda been sisters. And from what she said, I wasn't the first one that pointed it out to her. Add her to the list of folks that think you're guilty." He paused for a minute when Bret offered a piece of the candy. "Interestin' reaction when I asked if she knew Joanie Maxwell, though. She said no, but her eyes told me somethin' else."

"So she probably knew about Danny's saloon girl?"

"Sure looked that way. Could explain why she wasn't so upset about losin' the man she was gonna marry. Porter, who plays in this poker game at the boardin' house?" It was a question that, until now, Bart hadn't thought to ask.

"Besides whichever Maverick shows up and Tommy Sampson? Hopper, if he can get away. Joe Matthews – he owns Lollie's. Cary Townsend, from the general store. Bob Garringer, owns the hotel. Me, if I've had a good week. And Andrew Story."

Bart was instantly alert. "Andrew Story? Any relation to Jackson Story?"

Freeman nodded. "His son. He runs the ranch, ever since Jackson . . . well, ever since Jackson can't, anymore."

"Can't run the ranch? Why not?"

"Don't you two have a poker game to go to?" Bret asked before Porter could give his brother an answer.

"Yes, we better leave," the attorney volunteered. "You don't want to miss supper at Miss Nellie's if you don't have to. Especially on poker night."

Bart sighed. Another mention of Jackson Story, another interrupted discussion. Was he ever going to get to the truth about the mysterious ranch owner? It had taken him almost two days to find out that Jackson Story was real, with a ranch he could no longer run and a son that played poker named Andrew. What else was there that needed discovery?

"I walked. I assume you rode?"

"I did, Porter. I'll take Noble down to the livery and be right along. This could be an interesting night."

"Watch your step, Bart. This is no group to be trifled with." Bret was dead serious.

"Anything in particular I should know?" Bart asked.

"Yeah. Don't trust any of 'em."

"Even Porter?" The attorney was already on his way to Miss Nellie's, having hurried out of the jail when Hopper unlocked the cell. Bart stood on the outside of the bars, watching his brother's eyes. Those black eyes were the key to whatever was going on in this town. Right now they were worried, but he wasn't sure who or what they were worried about.

"Just be careful with Porter. He means well, but . . . just be careful."

"I'll keep my eyes open. I'll see you in the mornin'."

"G'night, Brother Bart. Good poker."

"Stay safe, Brother Bret."

Bart turned to Frank Hopper. "You playin' poker tonight, sheriff?"

"Nope. Give 'em my regrets, would ya?"

The gambler nodded. "I will. I'll be here to see my brother in the mornin'."

"I figured. Night, Maverick."


	11. Questions with No Answers

Chapter 10 – Questions with No Answers

Porter was right about at least one thing – Nellie Collin's cooking was outstanding. Every bit as good as Lily Mae's, the standard that Bart judged all food by. He was pleased that he'd gotten back to the boarding house in time for supper.

The parlor had been turned into a poker room, and as soon as everyone was done eating the migration began. It was easy enough to identify Tommy Sampson; the others would have to wait until introductions were made. At precisely seven o'clock Miss Nellie did the honors. Joe Matthews was a tall man, almost as tall as Bart, and was probably in his late forties. His hair and eyes were dark like Bret's, and he bore a scar across his chin.

Cary Townsend was much younger and much shorter, and the hair he was already missing on his head had migrated to his upper lip. He seemed to wear a perpetual smile and possessed a firm handshake. Bob Garringer looked like he needed a good night's sleep at his own hotel but seemed eager to get started with the game. Sampson was stocky and broad-shouldered and was greeted warmly by everyone. He went out of his way to shake hands with Bart and seemed to bear the Maverick's no ill-will for Danny's demise. Andrew Story was, like Frank Hopper, a no-show.

The game got underway and each man settled in. After an hour or two it became apparent that Sampson was the best poker player; the rest of the men were more evenly matched. Tommy was solid and steady, very rarely over-bidding a hand and remaining calm and focused. Porter wasn't bad but tended to bluff far too much for Bart's liking.

It was almost four in the morning when the game began to break up. Bart had been sitting between Freeman and Sampson all night, but he'd made no attempt to talk about Bret or the shooting. Garringer and Townsend were getting ready to leave, and Matthews was already gone when Danny's brother finally leaned across the table and remarked, "You don't play like your brother."

"You have the advantage over me, I'm afraid," Maverick answered. "I never played poker with Danny."

"He was good, but he was better at cheatin'. I have no doubt he was cheatin' in the games at Lollie's."

"Would you . . . "

"Testify to that in court? Nope."

"Why, if you believe it?"

"Because he was my brother. And I think your brother killed him for it."

Neither man made any attempt to get up from the table, and Bart finally asked another question. "How well do you know Bret?"

"Well enough."

"Then you know what kind of a man he is. Did he strike you as the kind to shoot somebody in the back?"

"Nope. But I still think he did it."

"You're wrong, Tommy."

Sampson shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe. Wouldn't be the first time."

"Can I ask you a question?" The gambler had no idea how the half-breed Comanche would take his query, but he had to ask anyway.

"Sure."

"Any idea who's sellin' guns to your people?"

Tommy's eyes came alive with anger. "No. And I wouldn't tell you if I did. I'd kill 'em."

"Fair enough. I'll prove you wrong, ya know. About Bret, that is."

Sampson nodded. "You can try." He offered his hand to the gambler and they shook. After Tommy was gone, Bart found himself standing next to Porter.

"You play as good as Bret."

"No, Porter, I play better than Bret."

"He'd argue with you about that."

Bart let loose with a chuckle. "He'd argue with me about anything."

"You make any headway with Tommy?"

"He's a good poker player."

The attorney grinned as he nodded. "That he is. But you're better. That's not what I meant."

"I know. But I ain't sure I can answer that." Bart sighed and turned towards his room. "I gotta catch a couple hours sleep. Can we get together later?"

"Sure. I've got a one o'clock appointment. How about after that?"

"Sounds good. I'll see you about two."

The attorney watched the gambler weave his way down the hall towards the room that had been his brothers. He walked slowly, and from the back looked like a man running on empty. Porter wondered what Bart wanted to talk to him about, then shrugged his shoulders and headed towards his own room. He'd find out soon enough.

The gambler woke some seven hours later and went straight to the jail. The sheriff was out; Bart was just as glad since the deputy made better coffee, and he was certainly in need of some. He surrendered his revolver to Billy and carried two cups of coffee into Bret's cell.

"Well, that's reassuring. Everything's right with the world again."

"Don't be smug. I need this." Bart indicated the coffee and swallowed a mouthful gratefully.

"Long night of poker?"

"Yes, and not a lot of answers."

"How'd you do with Tommy?"

"I beat him at poker, if that's what you mean."

"You know it's not."

Bart sat down on the cot at the far end of the cell and watched his brother pace. "He's not happy about the guns, he's a good poker player, and he believes that Danny was cheatin' those nights at Lollie's. He won't testify to that, and he still thinks you shot him."

"He's lyin'."

"About which part of it?"

"The guns. Talk to Townsend. He'll give you a different story."

"What's the purpose? If he's supplyin' guns, all he's doin' is gettin' his people killed."

"Ah, but which people? The white man, or the Comanche's?"

"You think he identifies with his mother's people?"

"It's possible."

Bart shook his head. "It's possible, but it don't make sense. He lived his whole life with the Comanche's. Why would he wanna see 'em destroyed?"

Bret sat down on the cot next to his brother, far enough away from the deputy so that he couldn't be heard, and his voice grew barely audible. "What do you think of Andrew Story?" Bret sounded more than curious.

"Not much. He didn't show."

"Somethin' happened. Story never misses a poker game."

"You gotta help me here, Bret," Bart pleaded. "I know there's a reason you don't wanna tell me, but I'm runnin' outta time. And I'm gettin' nowhere."

The older brother nodded. "It's ain't that I don't want to. I only know part of the tale. Go out to the ranch and see Jackson. He can explain it better than I can."

"Will he answer my questions?"

"Not if his son's around. You gotta talk to Jackson without Andrew there."

There was more on Bret's mind, but Frank Hopper came striding through the jail house door, and the gambler quickly stopped talking.

"Alright. I'll go see him later today. I wanna talk to Porter first."

"Don't tell Porter you're goin' to see Jackson. They ain't on the best terms."

Bart seemed surprised. "You mean there's somebody in this town that don't get along with the happy barrister?"

"One or two. Remember what I told you last night and be careful. You make one slip . . . "

"And you end up in jail charged with a murder you didn't commit?"

Bret nodded. "Now you get it, son."

"You do get yourself involved in some of the strangest things when I ain't around."

"I'm not the only one. Remember you still owe me an explanation about New Orleans." Bret gave his brother a half-smile, and Bart inwardly cringed. Telling that story was not going to be easy.

"I'll be by later. Don't go anywhere."

"And leave these lovely accommodations? I can guarantee I ain't gonna leave without you."


	12. The Real Story

Chapter 11 – The Real Story

"You had lunch?"

The gambler chuckled. "Lunch? I ain't had breakfast. You got somethin' in mind?"

Porter Freeman smiled. "Choices being as limited as they are, how about the café?"

"Why not?" The two men left the boarding house and walked over to the café. In just a few minutes they both had food in front of them and were talking about last night's poker game.

"You find out what happened to Andrew Story?" Bart asked.

"Nope. Nobody seems to know. I thought maybe I'd ride on out to the ranch and make sure everything was alright."

His brother had warned him off of telling Porter he wanted to talk to Jackson, but this opportunity had presented itself and Bart intended to take advantage of it. "Why don't I go with you?"

The attorney looked surprised but quickly agreed. "Sure, why not? It'll give you a chance to meet Andrew and see the ranch. It's quite a spread."

"So tell me about Cary Townsend."

"Cary? He owns the general store. Been running it since he got out of school. His father owned it, and when George died he left it to Cary. Married, couple of kids, good guy. What else do you want to know?"

"He lived here all his life?"

"Yeah."

"Was he a friend of Danny Fletchers?"

"Well, yeah. They went to school together."

Bart wasn't sure where he was going with his questions; right now he was just gathering information. But Bret had told him to talk to Townsend, and he wanted more background on the man before he did.

"And Tommy's?"

"Not as much as he was Danny's."

"But they get along alright?"

"Sure. Cary gets along with most everybody. He's honest and fair. Why the interest?"

The gambler shook his head. "Just tryin' to get a feel for these people. Bret's goin' on trial for his life next week, and some of 'em are bound to end up on the jury."

"That's true. Let's go down and get our horses and head on out to the Story Ranch."

XXXXXXXX

Porter hadn't been exaggerating when he told Bart the Story Ranch was 'quite a spread.' It reminded the gambler of the ranch on Valpariso Road, only bigger. The front door was opened by a Mexican housekeeper, and she ushered the two men into the parlor. "Very impressive," Bart murmured.

A tall man, just about Bart's age, strode into the room. "Porter, good to see you. Sorry I missed the game last night. And who have you brought with you this time?" He shook hands with the attorney, then extended his hand to the gambler as Porter made introductions.

"Andrew, this is Bret Maverick's brother, Bart. He wants to get to the bottom of all this as much as I do."

"Well, I didn't know that Maverick had a brother. Glad to meet you. Can't be much difference in age."

Bart shook his head. "There isn't. Less than two years. Which side of the fence are you on?"

Andrew Story cocked his head and laughed. "Not on any side. Still perched up on top tryin' not to fall off. I like Bret and can't imagine him killing Danny, but there is the matter of the gun. I guess I'm waiting for proof one way or the other."

"That's understandable, and the reason I'm here. I'm lookin' for the real killer. I assume that's not you."

Bart received another laugh in reply. "No, not me. Although there were times I wanted to beat some sense into Danny."

Andrew was what the ladies in town would describe as 'fine looking.' Wavy brown hair, green eyes, a firm handshake and an almost perfect profile. He seemed pleasant and friendly, nothing at all to dislike. Why then did the gambler feel wary of this stranger?

"What happened last night Andrew? It's not like you to miss poker."

The smile on his face was replaced by a look of grave concern. "It's Pa. He was . . . havin' a lot of trouble last night. I thought it was best to stay home with him."

"How is Jackson these days?" Porter asked.

"He's still Pa. That's about the best I can tell you."

From the other room a deep voice bellowed, "Andrew, who's here?"

"Visitors," came the younger man's reply.

"Well, bring 'em in!"

Freeman and Story exchanged glances. "Not me, Andrew. You know I'm not your father's favorite person."

"It's not you, Porter. It's your chosen profession. You know how he feels about lawyers."

"ANDREW!"

"Coming, Pa." He turned to the gambler. "He won't quit until I introduce you."

"That's alright. I was told he was the man to meet in Hobbs."

Once more the laugh issued forth. "Sounds like you've been listening to your brother. Well, follow me, Mr. Maverick. And be prepared."

The room they walked into was a large office. One wall of the room held a massive wooden desk, two others were full of bookcases. In the middle of the room was a wheelchair, occupied by a man that could only be Jackson Story. From the look of him he was a tall man, possibly taller than his son, and what you might call fierce looking. If it hadn't been for the wheelchair he would have been the most imposing man that Bart had ever seen, even more imposing than Beauregard Maverick in his prime. The same wavy hair as his son, gray instead of brown, and the same piercing eyes in blue rather than green. At this exact moment he wore a somewhat startled look on his face. "My God, another Maverick!"

"You're right, Pa, but how . . . "

"Looks just like his Aunt Jessie. You must be Bart, Beauregard's youngest. Come in, boy, come in. You gotta be here to get your brother outta jail. About time, too!"

Bart walked straight to Jackson and shook hands. The man in the wheelchair had a grip like a grizzly bear. "You know Pappy, Mr. Story? And you knew Aunt Jessie?"

"Knew?" came the inevitable question.

"Yes, sir. Jessie's gone. We lost her a while back. But she left a daughter in Montana, looks just like her. My cousin Jody. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Story."

"Jackson, boy, Jackson. You sure do look like Jessie. She was the first girl I ever loved. Sorry to hear she's gone. And your Uncle Bentley?"

"Ben still lives in Little Bend. Pappy lives with him, and so do Bret and me, when we're in Texas."

"Didn't Ben have a son, too?"

"Yes, sir, my Cousin Beau. Named for Pappy. Beau was in Texas, too, when Bret got into . . . trouble."

"Bull. Bret didn't kill Fletcher. Mavericks ain't no back-shooters. You tryin' to find the killer?"

Andrew interrupted Bart before he could answer. "Pa, Porter came out here with Bart. I'm gonna go talk to him. You need anything?"

"No, son, not a thing. Unless you wanna let me have a glass of whiskey?"

A shake of the head. "Too early in the day, Pa." Andrew turned to Bart. "He needs anything, you come and get me, please." In just a minute, the younger man was gone.

Jackson sat in the wheelchair, grinning from ear to ear. "From the look on your face, I'd say that Bret didn't tell you about me."

"No, he didn't. He told me to ask Reverend Ralph about you, but we got interrupted. And Bret wouldn't explain anything to me, just that he didn't know the whole story. Sent me out to see you for myself. Now I know why."

"That's only part of it, boy. I don't know how much Ralph would have told you. He's the one that put me in this wheelchair. And your Pa's the reason I'm alive."


	13. This Is Progress?

Chapter 12 – This Is Progress?

"That's a story I better hear, if you'll tell it." After his father's unfortunate history with James Langford in New Orleans had almost cost him his life and sanity, Bart was hoping this account of Pappy's deeds would produce a more favorable result.

"If you got time for me to explain it, I sure got time to tell it. Did Ralph tell you what he was before he got religion?"

Bart nodded. "Said he was a gambler and a hired gun."

"There's a pot of coffee over on the desk if you want some. And could you pour me one, too? Black."

' _Might as well have another cup,'_ Maverick thought. _'Looks like I might be here a while.'_ He was back with the coffee in just a minute, and followed the man in the wheelchair to a small table in the rear of the office.

"Sit down, boy. Comfortable? I met Beauregard when we were both wet behind the ears – my family moved just down the road from the Mavericks. They never had much but kids, and we had about the same. Jessie was the youngest in the family, and what a beauty she was. I was all of eleven years old, and I was smitten up to my eyebrows. I got to be friends with Micah and your pappy, and a couple years after that we moved to Kansas so Pa could try bein' a farmer. Didn't see none of 'em again until years later in Wichita.

"I was a deputy sheriff. Broke up a fight in one of the saloons and arrested Beauregard for cheatin' in a poker game. He wasn't the one that was actually doin' the cheatin', he was just the one accused. Thought sure I'd made any enemy for life when I hauled his sorry butt to jail and he went before the judge the next mornin' and got fined twenty-five dollars. Came back to the jail with me to collect his gun, and Fletcher was waitin' for me. Put a bullet in me and ran. If your Pa hadn't been right there I'da bled to death before Doc could be found.

"Doc didn't get the bullet out, but it was years before it did this to me. By that time I'd settled down in Hobbs and gotten married, had a son. Ralph got religion and came to town as a preacher, and he decided to stay, so's he'd never forget what he'd been when he was younger. It was a long time ago; I try not to think about it.

"Bout three weeks ago Andrew told me they had a new fella playin' poker with 'em – Bret Maverick. I heard Beauregard had a couple sons and I sent for Bret to see if he was one of 'em. He came on out here and heard most of the story, then decided to stick around a while. Some days later Danny Fletcher got shot. I feel responsible; Bret woulda probably been gone if it wasn't for me. This ain't no way to repay somebody that saved my life; watchin' his son get hung for somethin' he didn't do."

The gambler had listened to what Jackson told him, but something was missing. Why hadn't Bret heard the whole story? And what prompted him to stay in Hobbs? Even if he couldn't join Ginny in Kansas City, why hadn't his brother come back to Little Bend? Or gone almost anywhere else? Bart had a lot of questions, but no answers.

"Can I ask you somethin', Jackson?"

A nod of the head. "Sure, son, go right ahead."

"Why didn't you tell Bret the whole story?"

Jackson shook his head. "My fault, I'm afraid. I was feelin' poorly, and Bret was gonna come back to hear the rest. Then Danny got killed."

"How much do you know about Danny?"

"Not much, really. Just what I heard from Andrew."

"How about guns and the Comanche's?"

"Somebody's been supplyin' 'em. Don't know who."

Bart hesitated, then decided to ask one more question. "Any idea why? Thought there was a peace treaty with 'em."

Jackson nodded. "There is, so far. Sounds like somebody wants it broken though, don't it?"

The gambler stood to go. "I've kept you long enough. Thanks for the information. Pappy sure did get around in those days."

"How is the old scoundrel, anyway?"

That caused a small chuckle from the younger Maverick. "He's still gettin' around. Plays poker in Little Bend regularly. He's fought off most everything that's tried to do him harm. And, you'll be happy to hear, he's actually mellowed in his old age. Leastways, he's mellowed for Beauregard Maverick."

"Glad to hear he's still around and kickin'. You give him my very best next time you see him." Another handshake with the man in the wheelchair. "You need help with anything, you let me know. Be glad to do whatever I can for you and Bret."

"Thanks, Jackson. You've given me a lot to think about. We'll come by when this is all over and settled."

"You do that, boy."

Bart left the office and returned to the parlor, where he found Andrew and Porter smoking cigars and laughing. " . . . and then I told her . . . " Andrew saw Bart and stopped. "You and Pa done?"

"We are for now, Andrew. Porter, I'm gonna head back to town. I've got things to do. You comin' or you stayin' out here?"

The attorney got to his feet. "I'll ride back with you. Andrew, give your father my best, would you?"

"I will," Story answered. "And I plan on bein' there for the next poker game. Bart, good luck with everything."

"Thanks. You'll know when I find that proof I'm lookin' for."

"Fair enough."

XXXXXXXX

"Porter, you known Story long?" Bart and the attorney were on their way back to Hobbs.

"Well, yeah. Five, six years. Why?"

"He got a girl?"

There was silence for a minute or two. "No, not that I know of."

"What about Joanie Maxwell?"

"Him and Joanie? No."

"How long's Joanie been in Hobbs?"

"Born and raised here, far as I know. What are you getting at, Bart?"

"She involved with anyone before Fletcher?"

"She . . . well . . . I'm not sure. Maybe." They rode for another few minutes before Freeman spoke again. "Come to think of it, she used to be. Sheriff Hopper, if I remember right. But that was a long time ago."

Bart cleared his throat. "How long?"

"Right after I got here. Maybe a year before I met the Story's."

"Uh-huh."

XXXXXXXX

"I thought maybe you'd given up on me." Even though Bret said it with a smile on his face, there was a tone in his voice Bart couldn't identify.

"Think I'd quit on ya that easy?" asked the younger brother.

"Depends on whether I'm a hopeless cause or not."

Bart shook his head. "You sure ain't made this easy, Brother Bret."

"You talk to Jackson?" Bret sat down on the jail cell cot; Bart had pulled up a chair outside the cell.

"Pappy sure did get around, didn't he? What do you think of Jackson's son?"

"Andrew? He's alright. Not a bad poker player. Seems to be good friends with Tommy Sampson and Cary Townsend."

"And Porter."

"Porter know you went to see Jackson?"

"Know? Hell, I'm the one that went with him."

"I told you . . . "

"I know. But I talked to Jackson alone. Porter stayed in the parlor with Andrew. I promised Jackson we'd come out to visit when I get you outta here."

"There's a pleasant thought."

"Whatta you know about Matthews, the one that owns Lollie's?"

"Waters his whiskey. Don't spend any money on the saloon, that's for sure. Not much else. He's kinda closed mouthed. You been to see Townsend yet?"

"That's my next stop. Then I'm goin' to Lollie's. If I don't get back tonight . . . "

"I know. I'll see you in the mornin'."

"Bret . . . "

Both men stood, one inside the cell, the other outside it. "Don't give up, alright? I'm makin' progress."

"You are?"

"Yes, sir. I am."

The older brother sighed. "I hope so. I ain't lookin' forward to . . . "

"I know. Wish me luck."

"You don't need luck. You're a Maverick."


	14. A Glimmer of Hope

Chapter 13 – A Glimmer of Hope

Bart hadn't realized how late in the day it was, and the General Store was closed by the time he got there. Looked like the questioning of Cary Townsend would have to wait another day. Instead he headed for Lollie's, and was pleased to find a poker game in progress with a spot at the table waiting for him.

"Mind if I sit in, gentlemen?" he asked, although the term 'gentlemen' was dubious, at best. The table was populated by men he'd already met – Frank Hopper, Remy Miller, Homer Danvers, Fred Barton and Bob Garringer. There were no dissenting voices, so the gambler pulled up an empty chair and sat. There was also no sign of Joanie Maxwell, and Joe Matthews was sitting quietly at a corner table nursing a drink.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened for an hour or more, until Barton's pile of money ran dangerously low and he pulled a small bag from his coat pocket. "Got six ounces here, boys. Oughta be worth – "

"Cash only, Barton," Garringer interrupted him. "You had all day to get that changed."

"Six ounces of what?" the gambler asked innocently. There were no mines or silver deposits near Hobbs that he knew of.

"Gold," Barton replied.

For just a moment Remy Miller looked panic stricken, and Maverick pretended not to notice. Remy grabbed the bag and threw it back at Barton, and the look quickly disappeared. "I got money you can borrow," Miller announced, and supplied Barton with almost a hundred dollars. The next hand started and the incident seemed to be forgotten, at least temporarily, until a few minutes later, when it got quiet again at the table.

"I didn't know there was gold around here," Bart remarked.

"There isn't," Garringer volunteered hastily. "Somebody checked into the hotel yesterday and paid with that. I lost it to Fred when we played poker last night."

"And I forgot I had it," Barton added, none too convincingly.

The gambler didn't say anything, but his mind was working overtime. Almost everyone in the game had been all too ready to ignore or explain away the presence of the bag of gold. What were they hiding?

He had to admit later that his poker playing suffered; for one of the few times in his life he was having trouble playing the game he loved while he tried to work out the problem that was right in front of him. Where had the gold really come from? And why was it such a secret? And why was instinct telling him that somehow this was all tied in with his brother and the murder he was accused of?

He lost the hand they were playing, and the one after that, then two more in quick succession. He needed to be somewhere alone, where there was quiet and he could think without worrying about losing money. This time when he threw his cards in he knew it was time to leave.

"Doesn't look like my night. Guess I've got too much brother on my mind and not enough poker. Thanks for the game, gents." If any of the men at the table had known Bart Maverick any better, they would have realized something major was bothering him. He gathered what was left of his funds and left the table, then the saloon, and headed back to the boarding house.

There was a light on in Porter Freeman's room, and he knocked on the door and waited. In just a few seconds the door opened and he was greeted by the attorney's smiling face. "Bart, Ithought you were playing poker tonight. Cards not falling right?" He gave no answer and walked right past the barrister, straight into the room. Papers and books were spread all over the bed and part of the floor. It was obvious Porter was working on a case, and the thought fleetingly crossed the gambler's mind that it might be Bret's. "Bart? What's wrong?"

He finally sat down in a chair and stared at the attorney. "Porter, is there gold on the Comanche land?"

XXXXXXXX

"You sure it was gold?" It was some minutes later; the gambler and the attorney had sat in the room in silence while they each contemplated the question Bart asked.

"If you mean did I see it with my own eyes, the answer's no. Everybody there was in too much of a hurry to get it off the table and out of everyone's minds. That's how I know it was gold."

"Any chance Garringer and Barton were telling the truth?"

"About how they got it? No, none." Bart rubbed his chin and watched Porter, who seemed to be in a state of shock.

"What made you ask if there was gold on Comanche land?"

"Because that's the only way any of this makes sense."

Freeman looked even more stunned than he had just a few seconds ago. "I . . . don't understand."

"Look at it this way, Porter. What if there was gold on the Indians land? I mean a fair amount of it, not just a little."

"Everybody would want it. Right?"

"And what'd stop 'em from takin' it?"

There was some hesitation before the answer. "The Comanche's?"

The gambler nodded. "That's right. The Comanche's. Unless . . . "

"There weren't any Comanche's to prevent it."

Bart nodded again. It was becoming apparent why someone would smuggle guns to the Indians. If they had weapons when the white man tried to take their land to get to the gold . . .

"But that doesn't tell us who's been runnin' guns . . . or who killed Danny Fletcher and pinned it on your brother."

"Not yet it doesn't. But it gives us a good idea where to start."

XXXXXXXX

The next morning both men were up early. They left the boarding house together; Bart on the way to see Bret and Porter determined to find Tommy Sampson.

Frank Hopper had gone straight from Lollie's and the poker game back to the jail, and he was the one that took Bart's Colt and let him inside the cell to talk. Bret had been on the verge of making a remark about the game when he saw the look on Bart's face and kept quiet until Hopper locked the door and returned to his desk. "Somethin's happened. What is it?"

"Sit down and I'll tell you. I wanna make sure the sheriff don't overhear any of it." The explanation only took a few minutes and left Bret with a hopeful expression.

"Gold, huh? That sure would explain a lot. Who do you think's in on it?"

"I ain't eliminatin' no one at this point except Porter. If we can find out who's involved, it just might point us to Danny's killer." He shook his head. "I'll tell ya what, though – I think Danny was in on sellin' guns to the Indians."

"What about Tommy?"

"I don't think so, Bret. Porter's tryin' to find him this morning. I'll let you know later. I gotta go see Townsend – he was already gone home last night when I left here. I got a lotta questions to ask him."

"Bart – be careful. Whoever shot Danny's still out there."

The younger brother sighed. He knew Bret was going stir-crazy locked in this cell, and had nothing to do but think about what would happen if he was put on trial for a murder he didn't commit. "I will, Bret. I will." He reached out and laid a hand on Bret's shoulder, and received a half-smile in return.

"I know you will. I'm just . . . I don't want anything to happen to you. If this goes wrong and I get convicted – Pappy couldn't stand it if we were both gone."

"Bret . . . " Bart stood and embraced his brother, whispering in his ear, "It will not go wrong. I won't let it." He turned loose of Bret and crossed to the cell door. "Sheriff, I'm ready to go."


	15. She Don't Bite

Chapter 14 – She Don't Bite

The gambler was almost halfway to the General Store when two gunshots pierced the still morning. He took off running, long loping strides, and reached his original destination in a few tense seconds. There appeared to be no one inside but the back door swung open and shut noisily, and Bart followed the sound without wasting any time, drawing his Colt from its holster as he ran. He searched up and down the alley but there were no visible tracks and nothing else in sight in any direction. When he'd satisfied himself that the guilty party was long gone, he holstered his gun and turned back inside. Frank Hopper had just entered the store and slipped quickly behind the counter, with his gun out and at the ready.

By the time Bart got to the same spot, the result of the gunshots was obvious. Cary Townsend lay bleeding on the floor, laboriously breathing from the holes that had been blown in his chest. Hopper bent low over the store owner and pleaded, "Who was it, Cary? Who shot you?" No answers were forthcoming, and in just moments the store owner was lifeless.

"Did you see anything out there?" the sheriff asked, pointing the barrel of his gun towards the back entrance.

"No. No sign of anybody or anything."

"Gimme your gun, Maverick." The sheriff stood and held out his hand.

"You ain't serious." Bart was incredulous. Had John Law just been handed the perfect opportunity to lock up the second Maverick brother on a phony murder charge? Since the sheriff's right hand still held his pistol firmly pointed at the only other breathing person in the room, Bart slowly complied with the order.

Hopper took a whiff of the gun barrel and gave the weapon right back to its owner. "Just bein' careful," came the sheriff's remark, and the gambler visibly relaxed. "You on your way here?"

Bart nodded. "I wanted to talk to him. Missed him last night."

"Talk to him. About what?"

"About guns."

Before the questioning could go any further, several people had gathered in the store, Deputy Billy Connors among them. A gray-haired man with a mustache and a black bag followed Connors, and it quickly became evident that the man was the town doctor. After a cursory exam he lifted his eyes to the sheriff. "Some help here, Frank?"

"Billy, take Vern and Sandy and get Cary over to Doc's office."

Connors looked from the sheriff to the gambler and back again. "What about him?" he asked, nodding towards Maverick.

"Not involved."

The deputy nodded, and he and two other men lifted the body and carried it across the street, followed by the doctor. Hopper made his way to the back door, locked it and returned to the front of the store. "Alright, folks, nothin' more to see here. Go on home." The crowd slowly left the store and the sheriff turned to Bart. "Meet me in my office in an hour. I'm goin' to tell his wife."

The gambler nodded and followed the few remaining townsfolk out the door. Hopper was the last to leave, locking the door behind him with the key he'd retrieved from behind the counter. He walked back to the jail and mounted his horse, tied out front, and headed for the north end of town. Bart crossed the street and entered the doctor's office, where he found Connors and pulled him aside. "I need to talk to the doctor."

"Follow me." Billy went down the hall as Vern and Sandy left, and Bart trailed after the deputy. The next open door led them to the doctor's exam room, where the body of the store owner lay on the table. "Doctor Prescott, this is Bart Maverick. He found Mr. Townsend. He'd like to speak with you."

Doc Prescott nodded, and the deputy sheriff went back the way he'd come, closing the door behind him. The doctor wiped his hands clean and offered one to the gambler. "You're Bret Maverick's brother."

"Yes, sir, I am. I'm the one that found Mr. Townsend this morning." Prescott raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and Bart continued. "Any idea what he was shot with?"

"A .45, Mr. Maverick. Couldn't have been more than two or three feet away, from the size of the wounds. You get a look at the killer?"

"No, doctor, I didn't. Anything more you can tell me that might help?"

The doctor shook his head. "The second shot was unnecessary. Cary Townsend was dead as soon as the first shot hit him. Somebody knew exactly what they were doing."

"One more question, if you don't mind. What about Danny Fletcher? Was he killed the same way?"

"Have you asked your brother that question?"

Bart sighed. Another of the residents of Hobbs that believed Bret was responsible for Fletcher's death. "No, doctor, because Bret couldn't answer it. He's not the man that shot Fletcher."

Prescott thought that over for a minute before answering. There was a different tone in his voice when he did. "The shot was well placed, from about the same distance. No more than two or three feet. Danny Fletcher died immediately."

"Thank you, doctor. That's all I need." Bart tipped his hat and turned on his heel. He was frustrated and tired, and no closer to finding out who'd killed Danny Fletcher than the day he got to Hobbs. And to make matters worse, he was running out of time to find the real killer.

He was leaving the doctor's office via the front door when he almost ran headlong into Porter. "Bart, what happened?" There was something close to fear in Porter's eyes as he asked the question.

"Somebody killed Cary Townsend."

"Did you get to talk to him first?"

"Nope." A shake of the head. "I was on my way to do just that when I heard the shots. Did you find Sampson?"

"No luck. He wasn't at home, and I've been everywhere I could think of. What are you going to do now?"

"Hopper went to tell Mrs. Townsend what happened. He asked me to meet him at his office."

A look of utter disbelief passed over the attorney's face. "He doesn't think . . . "

"No. I've already been cleared."

"Then I'm going with you."

The gambler didn't want to disagree with his brother's lawyer. "Alright, Porter. You can argue with the sheriff about it."

The two men had crossed the street when the sheriff appeared, riding slowly into view. Frank Hopper looked like a man that had just been beaten and, in a manner of speaking, he had. Telling someone that their husband was dead was never easy; especially when the murdered man was a friend of yours. He rode straight to the jail and wearily dismounted, tying his horse to the hitching rail and following the attorney and the gambler inside.

Bret was leaning against the front bars of the jail cell when all three men entered. "Uh, oh, that doesn't look good," was all he said.

"It's not," his brother answered. "Cary Townsend is dead."

"Before or after you talked to him?"

"Before."

"From the look on your face I'd say you don't know who did it."

"No, Maverick, we don't," Hopper was the one who answered this time. "You got any ideas?"

"Maybe the same man that killed Freeman."

The sheriff turned his attention to the Maverick that wasn't locked up. "Tell me what happened."

Bart shrugged. "I left here and headed for Townsend's store. About halfway there I heard the shots and took off runnin'. By the time I got inside the back door was flappin' open and shut, and I ran out. There was nobody there, and I couldn't find any tracks. I came back in and you were already inside."

"That's it? That's all you saw?"

A nod answered the question. "That's all I saw. Except I did notice there was nowhere to hide back there, so whoever shot Townsend must have ducked into another building. Either the barber or the tobacco store. Maybe if they were really fast they could've made it to the livery. Wasn't enough time to get anywhere else."

"There's a couple houses back that way – Burns and Dorney. Coulda gone in one a them," Connors reminded everyone.

"I'll go check everything out. Billy, you stay here," the sheriff directed.

"Porter, you find Tommy this mornin'?" Bret asked.

"Nope. Looked all over town for him."

"How about the Burns or Dorney house?"

The lawyer shook his head. "No, I didn't check either place."

"Go with the sheriff, would ya?" That request came from Bart.

"I will. Where will you be?" Porter asked as Hopper headed for the door, with Freeman close on his heels.

"I've got a hunch. I'll catch you later at Miss Nellie's."

"Bart . . . " came from the man in the cell.

"Yes, Pappy?"

"Be careful, would ya?"

"I don't think she bites, Pappy."


	16. Suspicion

Chapter 15 – Suspicion

"You shouldn't be here, Tommy." The words were spoken by Cherry Smith to her deceased fiance's brother, Tommy Sampson, who was trying his best to find a place in the room to hide.

"I got nowhere else to go, Cherry. If he finds me, he'll kill me."

"Who, Tommy? What have you gotten into?" The girl and the half-breed had become close due to their mutual affection for Danny Fletcher, and his death had done nothing to dissipate their bond.

"I'm tryin' to find out what's goin' on in this town," he told her before managing to wedge himself into a corner of the closet in her room. Cherry lived in Mrs. Wagner's Boarding House for Single Ladies, and the man that had been her prospective brother-in-law turned up on her doorstep early this morning. She had no idea who was after him, or that anything out of the ordinary had happened; she was going to be late for school if she didn't leave right now.

"I have to go. If you're still here when school's out . . . "

"If I'm not, I'll probably be dead."

The schoolmarm shook her head. She didn't have time to wait and find out, and she went out the door hurriedly. Tommy breathed easier; maybe there was a chance he could hide here until everything calmed down and then make his escape. He had to find Bart Maverick or Porter Freeman, and see if they could make any sense out of all this. And he had to avoid the man that had just killed Cary Townsend at all costs. Even if he wasn't exactly sure who that was.

XXXXXXXX

Bart had gone to the livery and saddled Noble, then ridden south to the boarding house that Joanie Maxwell lived in. Mrs. Wagner's it was called, if he remembered correctly, and was about half a mile from the livery. He'd lied to the sheriff; there were faint tracks leading away from the General Store, which he'd managed to eradicate on the way to his gelding. He suspected they were probably Tosahwi's tracks – they looked more like the soft-bottomed boots that the half-breed wore than any he'd seen around town. Had Tommy made good on his threat to kill whoever was supplying guns to the Comanche's?

He was surprised to catch a glimpse of Cherry Smith getting in a buggy and heading towards the school. She didn't see him as she drove away, and the realization dawned on him that the school teacher could have been Sampson's destination, rather than Joanie Maxwell. It was still too early for anyone to be up at Mrs. Wagner's, and Bart tied Noble to the hitching rail quietly and made his way to the front door. He was in luck – the boarder's names were posted inside the door, next to their room number. Of course, no self-respecting gentleman would enter the boarding house by himself; that posed no problem for the gambler. Cherry Smith rented room 6b, Joanie Maxwell was in 10a. Bart took the stairs two at a time and checked the door to 6b first. Unlocked.

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him before taking a good look around. Neat and tidy, with nowhere of any consequence for a grown man to hide – except, perhaps, the closet. He had already taken two steps in that direction when the door swung open and Tommy Sampson practically fell out. It was a matter for debate as to which man was more startled – the gambler or the half-breed. "Maverick," was the first thing out of Sampson's mouth, while Bart remained quiet for a moment longer.

"Mr. Sampson. I thought those were your tracks."

"You tell anybody?" Sampson asked as he straightened up.

"Not a soul. You the witness?" The Comanche almost laughed. Anybody else might have assumed him the killer – if this was the way the younger brother reasoned, perhaps he had misjudged the older brother after all. "Something funny?"

"You assumed me innocent."

"You see who shot Townsend?" Bart asked.

"Not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

Sampson took stock of the man in front of him. Calm, relaxed, no gun pointed his way, he decided to trust his instincts and answer honestly. "It looked like Bob Garringer. He ducked into the barber shop and I just kept running to the livery."

"Why would Garringer kill a man that was supposed to be a friend?"

"They weren't friends. Garringer was buyin' guns from Townsend and sellin' 'em to the Comanches."

"Did the guns get Townsend killed?"

Sampson shook his head. "Nope, I don't think so. I think it was the gold."

XXXXXXXX

Tommy didn't trust Frank Hopper, never had. Neither had Danny, and he'd made that perfectly clear the night before he died. Before Hopper arrested Bret Maverick, Tommy had given careful consideration to the possibility that the sheriff might have murdered his brother.

Years ago when she was just a sweet eighteen year old, Frank Hopper was involved with Joanie Maxwell. Rumor was that Frank wanted to marry her, but Joanie hated living in Hobbs and refused to marry a man that had no intention of leaving town. Eventually they ended their relationship and Joanie went to work for Joe Matthews, attempting to save enough money to leave by herself. By the time Danny Fletcher came along she was desperate enough to get on with any man that might help her accomplish her goal of fleeing the small town. And when Fletcher agreed to marry the schoolmarm, per his father's wishes, she clung to the hope of running away with the preacher's son before the wedding could occur.

Tommy suspected the sheriff still harbored feelings for the saloon girl and couldn't stand all her talk of leaving town with his brother. Shooting Danny would have put an end to Joanie's determined flight plans, but it seemed like fate (in the form of Bret Maverick) had stepped in and solved the problem its own way. Or had it? Despite what he'd told Bart, Tommy still considered Hopper a much more likely suspect than the man charged with the murder. And once he'd overheard the conversation between the sheriff and Bob Garringer, he was almost certain of it.

Months ago a local prospector had checked into the hotel and paid in gold. After a night of non-stop drinking, Garringer had managed to find out just where the old man had made the strike – and it was on Comanche land. The prospector left town, so everyone thought, and no more was said about the gold. Until the half-breed was headed home one night and turned the wrong corner at the right time, catching Garringer and Hopper deep in devising a plot to get their hands on the gold.

The scheme was based on rumors, innuendos, and guns. It seemed to be working when incidents involving stolen horses, cattle and dead Comanche's became more frequent. The guns, of course, were supplied by Cary Townsend, who became less and less sure that he wanted any part of Comanche gold. His resolve to distance himself from the gold thieves had made him a liability to the group as far as Garringer was concerned, and the hotel owner appeared to take matters into his own hands with Townsend's early morning murder. Sampson was in the back of the store when the shots rang out, and he fled out the rear door practically on the murderer's heels. When the man Tommy believed to be Garringer ducked into the barber shop next door, the half-breed kept running as fast as his legs would carry him.

He fled the livery on the first horse he could get his hands on and rode straight to Cherry Smith's boarding house in the hopes of escaping the killer's grasp. He couldn't go to the sheriff, who was most certainly in on the plan. Not knowing who else was involved, he determined there were only two men in town he could probably trust – Bart Maverick and Porter Freeman.

Maverick listened to the story and finally shook his head. "You think Hopper knew what Garringer was gonna do?"

"Kill Cary, you mean? No, Frank really was friends with Townsend. He'd never have allowed the murder."

"How sure are you that Hopper shot your brother?" Bart wasn't about to make a move that might harm Bret in any way.

"Not positive. It's a suspicion more than a certainty. But maybe if we talk to Joanie Maxwell . . . "

Bart chuckled. "Funny, I was just about to suggest the same thing."


	17. Drinks on the House

Chapter 16 – Drinks on the House

The two men made their way quietly downstairs, locating room 10a in the far corner of the boarding house. The door to Joanie Maxwell's room was just as unlocked as Cherry Smith's had been, but the occupant of 10a was still fast asleep in her bed and snoring loudly.

"I thought women didn't snore," Tommy whispered, and Bart cast an amused glance right back.

"Drunks snore."

Sampson nodded and gently shook Joanie's shoulder. "Wake up, honey, it's time to get outta bed." She never stirred and Tommy shook her again, a little more firmly this time.

"Huh? What? Who's there?" Her head came off the pillow slowly, red curls temporarily obscuring her vision.

"It's Tommy Sampson, Joanie. We need to talk to you."

"We? Who's with you?" She reached up and brushed the hair out of her eyes, which stared blankly at the second man in the room. "Do I know you?"

"Sure, Joanie. We met the other night at Lollie's. My name's Bart, remember?"

"Oh, yeah," she finally replied. "The absinthe man."

"That's right," the gambler agreed with her. "The absinthe man. Can you sit up and talk to us?"

"No," she announced firmly. "Go away."

"Joanie, it's about Danny," Tommy tried to gain her attention. "Remember Danny?"

"Danny," she sobbed without warning, and struggled to right herself in bed. "Danny left me."

"No, Joanie, Danny didn't leave you. Somebody took him away from you. We're tryin' to find out who that someone is."

Her answer sounded confused. "The gambler. That Maverick. Shot him."

Bart spoke up. "Joanie, it wasn't Bret Maverick. Was it somebody else? Was it Frank Hopper?"

"Frank? No, not Frank. It was . . . it was . . . I need a drink. Please, I need a drink."

The gambler sighed. They were so close, but they might as well have been miles away from the answer. "We don't have one to give you, Joanie. But I can take you to Lollie's, and you can get one there."

"Are you sure . . . " Sampson started to ask.

"It's our best bet. Has Miss Nellie got a back door to the rooming house?"

"You ain't gonna – "

"No, not the girl. You should be safer there than you are here. Let's see if we can convince Joanie to get dressed so I can take her to get a drink. Maybe then she'll remember who shot Danny."

"I sure hope so."

XXXXXXXX

After Tommy had been safely hidden at Miss Nellie's, Bart took Joanie Maxwell to Lollie's for the drink she so desperately needed. Actually, it took two shots of whiskey before the girl began to settle down, and was willing to talk to Bart about the night Danny was murdered.

"Did you see him after the poker game?" Bart was, of course, referring to the game that Bret had called Danny on his cheating.

"Saw him before . . . during . . . and after. He wasn't happy."

Of course he wasn't happy. "About gettin' caught?"

"About gettin' married."

"Why was he gonna marry her, Joanie?"

"Hmpf. Because his pa wanted him to."

Bart looked at the girl. She'd been pretty at one time, before too much drink got to her. Now she looked old beyond her years and worn out. And sad. Even when she was laughing, she looked sad. The gambler wondered if it was the loss of Danny that made her sad, or the realization that she'd probably never leave Hobbs, New Mexico.

"Did he love her at all, Joanie?"

She thought about that question for a minute before answering it. "Maybe. Maybe a little. But he loved me more."

"Did you always watch him play poker? When he was at Lollie's?"

Her head nodded, and her curls once again bounced in her face. "Yeah. He played a lot."

"Did he cheat a lot?" That was a loaded question, but the girl didn't catch exactly what he was asking her.

"Sometimes. He was real good at it. Mostly when he played with Miller and Barton. Never cheated when Tommy played. Tommy woulda caught him at it, whaled the tar outta him."

"Tommy didn't like it when Danny cheated?"

"No. That's why Danny didn't play at Miss Nellie's no more. Frank and Garringer threw him out when they caught him. Said if it was anybody else they'da killed him."

"So you saw him after Maverick caught him cheatin'?"

"There's a room upstairs. Joe let me and Danny use it. I followed him up there after he got accused."

"Where was Maverick when you went upstairs?"

"Gone. I don't know where. Why you so interested, anyway?"

"I'm tryin' to help Tommy. He wants to know who killed his brother."

"The gambler. Maverick."

"Was he killed upstairs?"

"Was he . . . no. They found him in the alley next to the gun shop. About an hour later."

Joanie's glass was empty, and she looked expectantly at Bart. He paid for another drink and the bartender poured her third. "Who found him?"

"Uh . . . I don't . . . wait. Danvers. Then Frank Hopper."

"Where were you when you heard he was dead?"

"Standin' right at this bar talkin' to Garringer. He'd just come inside . . . "

Bart put up his hand. "Garringer hadn't been in here before?"

"No. He'd just come in when Danvers came runnin' in with the news about Danny."

"Did Garringer come in alone?"

"I think so. He left right away, said he was goin' to see if the sheriff needed any help."

"Anybody else come in?"

"No. I went to Doc's office to see if Danny was really dead. Then I went home."

"Joanie, I have to go talk to someone. Do you want me to take you home?" That was the least he could do for her, considering he was the one that had brought her in to Lollie's.

She shook her head carefully. "No. But could you buy me a bottle?"


	18. Out of the Shadows

Chapter 17 – Out of the Shadows

Some fifteen minutes later Bart was at the Hobbs Hotel, waiting to talk to Bob Garringer. The front desk clerk had been certain that Garringer was in his office, but found it empty when he went to check. The owner was located in the dining room, and Bart was ushered into the office to wait. In just a few short minutes Garringer made his appearance, looking a whole lot more rested than he had at the poker game. They shook hands and Bart resumed his seat.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Maverick?"

"You heard about Cary Townsend bein' killed this morning, Mr. Garringer?"

The hotel owner shook his head. "I did, and I'm awful sorry about it. Cary was a good friend and a good man. Does Frank have any idea who did it?"

"No, not so far. How'd you hear about it?" There was something familiar about Garringer and Bart was trying to figure out what it was.

"I saw Billy Connors in the dining room and he told me. Said you and Frank found him."

"Yeah, I had somethin' I wanted to discuss with him. By the way, where were you this morning?"

"I was at the school waiting for Miss Smith. We had a meeting scheduled to talk about my son, but the teacher was late and it was way past nine o'clock before I got to the hotel."

There was a knock on the office door and Garringer got up to answer it. The front desk clerk had a question, and Bart sat and studied the hotel owner from the rear. It wasn't more than a minute or two before it came to him – Bob Garringer looked an awful lot like Homer Danvers. They were about the same height and build, with curly brown hair and brown eyes. He remembered Joanie Maxwell telling him, _" . . . I was standin' right at this bar talkin' to Garringer. He'd just come inside . . . "_ If the saloon girl was full of liquor, as she usually was, could she have confused the two men?

"Sorry for the interruption. Davey had a question that wouldn't wait."

Bart realized that not only did the men look similar, they sounded similar. "Mr. Garringer, where were you when Danny Fletcher was killed?"

"Pardon me?"

"Where were you the night Danny Fletcher was killed?"

"Didn't Frank tell you? I was in the gun shop when I heard the shot. That's why I got to the boy so fast – I was just a few feet away from where we found him."

"You weren't in Lollie's talkin' to Joanie Maxwell?"

The man looked startled. "No, I wasn't. But she was there with somebody – I went running in to tell Connors about Danny, and she was at the bar with Remy Miller. No wait, it was Homer. She was at the bar with Homer Danvers. Did she say it was me?"

This was beginning to take on a whole new meaning. What if it was Homer Danvers that Tommy had seen this morning, instead of Bob Garringer?

"She did, but I'm sure she was just confused." The gambler stood and shook hands again with the hotel owner. "I've taken up enough of your time this morning. Thanks for the help." He hurried out of the office and through the lobby, anxious to run his theory past the man he'd secreted in his room at the boarding house. As he got to the boardwalk another thought crossed his mind, and he turned instead towards the jail. Time to ask the sheriff some point-blank questions.

XXXXXXXX

"Haven't I seen enough of you today, Maverick?" That was the question Frank Hopper aimed directly at Bart when he walked through the front door of the jail.

"I imagine you have, sheriff, but I haven't seen enough of you."

Hopper shook his head, as did the man sitting inside the locked jail cell. Bret Maverick looked up at his brother from his place on the cot and wondered just what Bart was up to now. "Back so soon?" was all he asked.

For the moment Bart ignored his older brother. He had several questions to ask Hopper, and he wanted Bret to stay out of it. "I need to talk to you," he started, and when it looked like Bret was about to say something, Bart continued, "privately."

"Billy just ran over to the stage depot for me. We can talk when he gets back."

"Outside," Bart insisted.

"Outside," Hopper confirmed.

"Bart," Bret called from inside his cell.

"Later, Bret," came the unexpected answer. The part-time deputy returned via the front door and the mismatched pair went out the back door.

"What?" Hopper asked. "Whatta you wanna know that you won't ask in front of your brother?"

"Which one's your sister? The one in El Paso or the one teachin' school here in Hobbs?"

"I don't have a sister, Maverick."

"Yeah, you do. Which one is it?"

The sheriff turned away from Bart and walked three or four feet down the alley. When he turned back to the gambler there was a hint of resignation in his eyes. "How'd you figure it out?"

"I know the girl in El Paso. She was involved with a man up north who wrote to her almost every day. He had a younger sister. It took me a while to put it together after I met the schoolmarm. Couldn't understand why she was usin' somebody else's name. What's she hidin' from?"

The sheriff looked up and down the alley; when he saw no one he lowered his voice. "It ain't nothin' illegal. My sister's tryin' to avoid a fella that wanted to marry her and wouldn't take no for an answer. Thought if he heard the name he'd just figure it was Cherry Smith from El Paso and not bother her."

"Why didn't she just make up a whole new name?"

Hopper shrugged. "You ever figure out why a woman does anything? Me neither."

"You're the man from up north the El Paso Cherry Smith was involved with?"

The sheriff nodded. "Still am. You gonna tell everybody?"

"Not if you'll answer a question for me."

"What question would that be?"

"Who really killed Cary Townsend? Homer Danvers or Bob Garringer?"


	19. Breathing Easier

Chapter 18 – Breathing Easier

"Who really killed Cary Townsend? Homer Danvers or Bob Garringer?" Bart's question hung in the air like a loaded gun with the hammer pulled back, just waiting to go off and do some damage.

"I ain't sure yet." Frank Hopper's answer didn't surprise Bart in the least. But he hadn't shied away from the question or acted like he had no idea just where it had come from. "Whatta you know that I don't?"

"Nothin' that I've got proof of. Who was there the night you found Fletcher?"

"Nobody."

Maverick shook his head. "Try again. I've got two witnesses with conflicting testimony."

"You sound like Freeman."

"That's not an answer. Who found Fletcher?"

"Anybody ever tell you you're a pain in the butt?" Hopper paused and elicited a chuckle from Bart.

"Yeah, my brother, all the time. Who was it, sheriff?"

"Garringer. What does that prove, counselor?"

"Nothin', yet. When it does, I'll tell ya." Bart had gotten answers to all the questions he had right now, and he headed back inside the jail and straight to Bret's cell.

"What's goin' on with you and Hopper?"

"Just gatherin' information, Brother Bret."

"Makin' any progress? Judge is supposed to be here Monday." There was an edge in Bret's voice that hadn't been there before. The trial was drawing ever closer and Bart appeared to be getting nowhere in proving Bret innocent of the murder.

"Some. I'll see you later." Before Bret could protest or ask any more questions, his brother was gone. The sheriff finally came in the back door and walked straight over to the locked cell.

"Your brother always that confusing?"

"Yep. It's one of his best qualities."

XXXXXXXX

Bart hurried back to Miss Nellie's. He'd been gone longer than he intended to be, but he'd gotten answers to some of his questions. Everything was beginning to fall into place, and he needed just a little more information. He went straight to his room to make sure Tommy Sampson was still there.

"This mornin' at the General Store. Could you have seen somebody besides Garringer?"

"No, I . . . wait a minute." Tommy stopped mid-sentence. "You mean . . . I never thought . . . I was sure it was Garringer. But maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was Homer Danvers. I just got a quick look at him." He paused once more. "Maybe it was Danvers with the sheriff that night I overheard 'em plannin' to get their hands on the gold. But how would Homer have known about it and the prospector at the hotel?"

"Poker. Or Frank Hopper. Danvers told me he had reason not to trust Hopper, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. Said I'd have to find out for myself. What if he and the sheriff were partners in the gold scheme and Hopper backed out? If Danvers went lookin' for another partner and convinced Danny to go along with him . . . "

Tommy sat down in a chair abruptly. "I suspected Danny was in on the gun runnin' . . . but I couldn't prove it. We had a fight over it . . . then he started cheatin' at poker. Said he wanted to buy Cherry a house before they got married . . . but that wasn't the real reason for the cheatin'."

"He wanted to skip the weddin' and run away with Joanie Maxwell," Bart offered, and Tommy nodded.

"Joanie told you?"

"That, among other things. Cherry wasn't really in love with him, was she?" Bart had been waiting a while to ask that question, even though he already suspected he knew the answer.

Sampson shook his head. "We . . . we didn't mean to fall in love. It just happened. Cherry found out about Joanie and needed somebody to talk to. I never shoulda let Danny . . . I coulda stopped him, and I should have. But I figured if he skipped town with Joanie . . . then maybe Cherry and me stood a chance of bein' able to get together, even if it took a while. So I did nothin' . . . and now Danny's dead, and your brother's probably gonna hang for it."

"Even though Bret didn't kill Danny."

"Do you know who did?" Tommy stared at Bart hopefully. He had nothing against Bret Maverick and was assuming that Bart had a better answer.

"I'm not sure yet. But I'm gettin' close. You stay here, I gotta talk to Porter."

Bart went straight to Porter's office, knocked on the door and heard, "Come in!"

"Porter, I need your help," Bart explained as he entered the office and closed the door behind him. Some fifteen minutes later he was back down the hall and in his room.

"Tommy, I've got an idea. I need you to . . . "

XXXXXXXX

"And that's about all of it. If we can get 'em here tomorrow night, I think I can force it out into the open. Includin' who killed Danny." Bart had spent that last few minutes explaining his plan to Sampson, and Tommy looked encouraged.

"It just might work. If me and Poter can round up everybody."

It was a lot to ask of the two men, and Bart was depending on them to get the job done. Bret's life was riding on it, as were Frank Hopper's badge and any future relationship between Cherry Smith and Tommy Sampson.

"You think Danvers suspects I saw him this mornin'? Won't do you or your brother no good if he catches up to me before we're ready."

"Nope. I'm the only one that knows you were in the store, and I'm sure not tellin' anybody. You stay here tonight. With any luck, this'll be over by tomorrow." The gambler breathed a little easier. If he was right, Bret would soon be out of jail, with all charges dismissed. If he wasn't . . .


	20. The Long and Winding Road

Chapter 19 – The Long and Winding Road

It was almost seven o'clock Saturday night when everyone began to gather in Nellie Collin's parlor. Andrew Story was the first to arrive, followed in quick succession by Homer Danvers, Bob Garringer, Frank Hopper and Joe Matthews. Porter Freeman and Tommy Sampson wandered down the hallway from Porter's office, and Bart Maverick rushed in, almost breathlessly. He'd hurried over to Lollie's after Joe Matthews arrived and brought Joanie Maxwell and a bottle back, with strict instructions for Miss Nellie about how often and how much to dispense to the girl.

It seemed like an odd collection of men, but each was necessary in his own way. The professional gambler got the game started but stayed fairly quiet for the first hour of play. A little after eight things began to get more lively, and bits and pieces of conversation drifted around the table. When the next lull in the action happened, Bart shattered the peace at the table with a single question – "Sheriff, why'd you change your mind about sellin' guns to the Comanche's?"

Hopper's head was abruptly raised, and he glared angrily at the man that had asked the question. "What in the world are you talkin' about?"

Maverick and Sampson exchanged meaningful looks, and Tommy was the one with the answer. "I heard you and your partner plannin' on stealin' the gold from Comanche land. You were gonna sell 'em guns and then run 'em off when they broke the treaty. You backed out of it and your partner went into business with my brother instead. And Danny got killed for it."

The sheriff opened his mouth to refute everything before abruptly changing his mind. He set his cards down on the table and folded his hands on top of them. That's when Bart spoke up. "We've got proof, Frank. There ain't no sense in denying it."

Hopper reached up and removed the badge from his vest, then laid it down on top of his cards. He spoke quietly, resignedly. "You're right. That's just what I was gonna do. After all these years of bein' the sheriff, I was gonna break the law. But I couldn't do it. Somebody talked me out of it."

"Cherry Smith?" Bart asked. "The real Cherry Smith, in El Paso?"

Hopper nodded. "I . . . I couldn't go through with it. I told my partner I wanted out."

Tommy interrupted. "But you let my brother get involved. And that's what got him killed."

"No," the sheriff protested. "Maverick shot your brother."

"No he didn't," the gambler insisted. "And you've suspected as much all along."

"Ain't no proof of that. Nothin' but Bret's gun bein' the murder weapon. The gun that was stolen from his room in this very boardin' house."

"The gun's enough, ain't it?"

"Mr. Freeman, tell us about the night of Danny's murder." The sheriff looked startled at Bart's directive, but no one else at the poker table changed expressions.

"I was in my office working the night Danny Fletcher was killed. I heard something in the room Bret was living in, and I thought he was back awful early from his poker game at Lollie's, so I got up and started to open my door. There was a man walking away from our rooms, with Maverick's gun belt over his shoulder. His back was turned towards me, but it wasn't Bret."

"Who was it?" Bart asked.

"It was Homer Danvers."

"You're crazy, Freeman." Danvers hadn't said a word so far, but he spoke up now.

"No, Homer, I'm not crazy. It was you, alright."

"Why would I steal Maverick's gun?" Everybody turned to Bart, who seemed to be the man that knew where this was all headed.

"Because Danny Fletcher was in trouble with Tommy about sellin' guns to the Comanche's. He wanted out of the whole scheme. That's why he'd gone back to cheatin' at cards, because the combination of guns and the Indians made him nervous. You found the perfect patsy when Bret called Danny on his cheatin' at poker. You could get rid of an unwanted partner and keep all the profits for yourself."

Bart turned his attention back to the sheriff. "Who were you partners with, sheriff?" There was no answer from the lawman, and the Bart asked the question again. "Who was your partner?" Hopper still said nothing, but he looked straight at Homer Danvers.

"And where were you after my brother confronted Danny and broke up the poker game?" Bart pointedly asked Homer.

"I went around back to take care of some personal business. Then I went back into Lollie's. I was talkin' to Joanie when Garringer came runnin' in with the news about Fletcher."

"You were talkin' to Joanie? She says Garringer was there with her." Bart stood up from the table and walked over to the parlor door. "Miss Nellie, could you come in here? And bring Joanie with you, please."

Miss Nellie appeared in the hall, leading Joanie Maxwell by the arm. Joanie was weaving slightly from side to side, and Maverick went out to assist. They succeeded in getting her into the parlor and down into a chair at the card table, then Miss Nellie left the room, closing the door behind her. Joanie looked at each man, one at a time, and when she'd seen everyone she smiled and said, "Hello, boys."

"Joanie, you were workin' at Lollie's the night Danny got shot, weren't you?"

Joanie looked at Joe Matthews and then nodded. "Sure I was."

"What happened that night?"

"Danny was playin' poker with Remy and Fred and Homer, and that gambler fella, when he got called for cheatin'."

"Was he? Cheating, that is."

She nodded and almost fell out of her chair. Bart grabbed her arm and held her upright. "Well, sure he was. He was tryin' to make money so's we could run away afore he got stuck marryin' the schoolmarm."

Frank spoke up again. "He wasn't gonna run away with you, Joanie. He was gonna marry that girl."

"No, he wasn't. We was gonna leave town."

Andrew Story finally said something. "He told me the same thing. He didn't wanna get married, he wanted to run away with Joanie."

"Then why . . . " Frank Hopper began.

"Cause his pa wanted him to," Joanie answered.

"Joanie, what happened when Maverick called Danny out for cheatin'?" The question came, once again, from Bart.

"The gambler left. Danny went upstairs and I followed him."

"Upstairs?"

"There's a spare room upstairs. I used to let Danny and Joanie use it," Joe Matthews explained.

"Did you two stay upstairs?"

The girl shook her head. "No. Danny left, and I went back to the saloon. Then Garringer came in and we started talkin'. Just a few minutes later Danvers ran in and said Danny was dead." She began to cry, and Bart handed her a handkerchief.

"Hopper, who was there when you found Fletcher's body?"

The sheriff gave Bart the same answer he'd given yesterday. "Bob Garringer."

Maverick raised an eyebrow. "So it wasn't Danvers, was it?"

"Nope."

The gambler turned his attention back to the girl. "Who were you talking to in the saloon, Joanie?"

"Garringer."

"Walk over to him, would you please?"

He reached out and gave her his hand, and pulled her to her feet. She staggered somewhat, then stood erect and walked straight to Homer Danvers.

"Is that the man you were talkin' to?"

"Yep. Bob Garringer."

Tommy Sampson stood and pulled his Colt. He aimed it directly at Homer Danvers and pulled the hammer back. "Why, Homer? Why'd you kill Danny?"

Frank Hopper picked up the badge he'd laid on the table and put it back on his vest. "Because he was tryin' to get even with me. He knows the schoolmarm's my sister, and the best way to hurt me was to hurt her. Ain't that right, Danvers?" Homer Danvers never said a word. The sheriff pulled his own gun out and glanced over at Sampson. "Sit down, Tommy. This is still my job. Homer, you're under arrest for the murder of Danny Fletcher."

"And the murder of Cary Townsend," Sampson added. "I was in the back of the store when you shot him."

"And that means . . . " Bart began.

"Yes it does, Maverick. Your brother's a free man."

TBC


	21. Heads I Win, Tails You Lose

Chapter 20 – Heads I Win, Tails You Lose

"Are you sure about this?" That was the only question Bret Maverick had for Frank Hopper when the sheriff unlocked the jail cell and swung the door open wide.

"I'm sure, Maverick. Your belongin's are over there on my desk, and you can thank your brother for bein' so damned stubborn."

The personal belongings would wait; there was a younger brother to be embraced in a show of familial emotion in the Mavericks that most people heard of but never actually got to see. "You son of a gun," the older brother whispered in his sibling's ear, and it was hard to determine whose face actually wore the bigger smile.

"Told ya," Bart responded in the same manner, and Bret squeezed his brother's shoulders before turning loose and shifting his attention to Porter Freeman, standing three or four feet away. That response was limited to a warm handshake, but the smile was nearly as big. There was no mistaking the overriding emotion being expressed, and the attorney looked almost as pleased.

"There's somebody missin' from this celebration. He had a previous engagement with a young lady, but he'll be around later," Freeman explained. "He helped us out a lot."

"Sampson?" was the newly-freed man's question, and Porter nodded vigorously. Bret's gaze shifted to the next cell, which now held Homer Danvers and was locked just as tight as his had been. He shook his head in disbelief and proceeded to Hopper's desk, where he gathered the items that were his and quickly put them away. He slung the empty gun belt across his shoulders and looked expectantly at the sheriff. "Need it for the trial?"

"We do," came the reply, "but the town council will buy you a new one. Take your pick over at the gun shop."

"I'll do that."

There was a firm slap on the back, accompanied by a "Let's get outta here," from a familiar voice. "You've spent enough time in this jail."

Bret turned to his brother. "I don't know how you survived it in Montana. I was about to go stir crazy."

Bart laughed and grabbed Bret by the arm. "Don't cha know? I did go stir crazy!"

XXXXXXXX

They were sitting in Miss Nellie's parlor, just finishing the meal she'd insisted on preparing for them. "Won't find any better food in town," she'd maintained, "and I want you to relax and enjoy it."

"Alright, Miss Nellie, if it'll make you happy," the exonerated gambler responded. "But only if you'll join us."

"I can manage that," she smiled back at him, and that's how the Maverick brothers, along with Porter Freeman and Tommy Sampson, came to spend Sunday afternoon in Nellie Collin's parlor. The meal was not only delicious, the surroundings were pleasant and the mood was decidedly gay.

"So that's the whole story, or at least most of it," Bart explained as he laid his napkin down on the table. "Sorry it took so long to unravel, but it was a bit complicated."

"You were workin' on it," Bret nodded. "I appreciate the effort that you all had to put into it. I sure didn't wanna go through a trial."

"Dang, there goes my big fat fee," Porter groused, and everyone laughed.

"You can always defend Homer," Bret suggested, but Porter shook his head.

"Nope. I want nothing to do with that one. Danvers is as guilty as can be, and he'll hang for it."

"Amen," added Tommy.

"I'm sorry about your brother," the older gambler offered, and Tommy nodded in response.

"I appreciate the sentiment. And I'm glad I was wrong about your bein' guilty."

"You have a long talk with the schoolmarm? What is her real name, by the way?" Porter questioned.

"Her name is Cherry," Tommy grinned. "That's where the idea for usin' 'Cherry Smith' came from. Besides, with any luck it'll get changed again somewhere down the road."

"From Smith to Sampson?"

No answer was necessary. "How are you going to like having a sheriff for a brother-in-law?" Miss Nellie asked.

"Bout the same way he's gonna like havin' a half-breed for one. We'll both get used to it."

"And Joanie Maxwell?"

Porter shook his head. "Poor girl. Looks like she's the big loser."

There was a twinkle in Miss Nellie's eyes. "Don't be so sure about that. I've got a sister in California that's willing to take her in. As soon as we can get her dried out, that is. Joanie is going to move in here and spend some time with me, and when she's ready she'll go to live with LaVern."

"Good, I'm glad. Get her out of this town; that's all she's ever wanted. Maybe the idea of losin' Danny won't be so hard on her." Tommy's tone of voice was sad but hopeful.

"Brother Bret, I promised Jackson Story that we'd swing by his place before we left town. When do you wanna do that?"

"As soon as possible, Bart. I been in Hobbs way longer than I ever wanted to be, and I'd like to get on the road out of here tomorrow, if we can."

Miss Nellie looked displeased. "Do you boys really have to go so soon?"

Bret nodded. "Yes, ma'am, there's someplace I need to be."

"Someplace in Kansas?" Bart asked mischievously.

The older Maverick didn't answer him, just smiled at Miss Nellie. "How about it, Bart? You up for a visit to the Story Ranch?"

"Anytime, Bret. Think your horse will remember who you are?"

XXXXXXXX

They spent the rest of the afternoon at the Story Ranch and listened to Jackson spin tales of his adventures with the Maverick family. It was past dark by the time they returned to the boarding house and both Mavericks were close to worn out. Miss Nellie was more than happy to fix them a late supper and they retired to their mutually rented room shortly after that. They packed quickly, anticipating their journey out of Hobbs as an early morning enterprise, and spoke very little until they were almost finished.

"Just exactly where are we headed?" Bart asked at long last.

"You got anyplace in mind?" was Bret's response.

"Like I said before – someplace in Kansas."

"No."

"Alright, what happened between you two?"

Bret sat down on the bed. "It's too long a story to start tonight. I'll explain when we get goin' tomorrow."

That was alright with his brother. "I got one of those, myself, I'm afraid."

"New Orleans?"

"And afterward, yeah."

"Looks like we both got a lotta catchin' up to do."

"I guess we do. Who starts first?"

"Toss a coin?"

Bart shook his head. "Not with your coin, Pappy. Tell you what, whoever wins gets to pick where we're goin'. And has to explain everything first."

Bret thought it over and finally agreed. "Somethin' for everybody. You got a coin?"

Bart reached in his pocket but had nothing but paper money. "Alright, your coin. But not the one with two heads."

The older brother chuckled. "Fair enough. Here, see if this one passes your inspection."

Bart examined the coin and approved it. "I'll toss it. You call it." And he flipped it high in the air.

"Heads," Bret insisted.

"Tails. I win. We're goin' to Kansas City."

Bret grimaced. "And you better be ready to spill your tale of woe once we've gotten started. Agreed?"

"I already agreed. But you might regret it once I explain everything."

"No more than I'll regret goin' to Kansas City."

 **I want to personally thank everyone who read this story and hung in there while I took a few weeks off for heart surgery. I promise not to do that again, but I do appreciate your loyalty and perseverance. My heart, by the way, is coming along nicely and, as always, a new story starts tomorrow.**


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